


Until we died

by godsdaisiechain (preux)



Series: As in all things... [4]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Secret Relationship, alternative ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-13 20:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 34,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10520835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preux/pseuds/godsdaisiechain
Summary: Finally finished.....  spoilers for Season 5.Carl Elias wakes up to a familiar face.  Set after his last scene in Season 5.  The work alternates between Carl's post-canon experiences (odd numbered chapters) and his memories of the pre-canon past with Anthony (even numbered chapters).The post-canon stories fall after the end of the "as in all things" series and the even numbers between the stories in the "warriors" series.





	1. Not what he expected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carl Elias is shot in the head. He should be dead, but the Machine has other plans for him.
> 
> "A scent, like cedar, and a firm, comforting hand on his shoulder. “Boss?” Carl kept his eyes closed. It couldn’t be Anthony. He’d made that mistake once before and nearly lost his composure in front of Root."
> 
>  
> 
> Posted for the Fan Flashworks "square" challenge.

Carl dimly regained consciousness as the last car moved away. A figure shrouded in a jacket, face covered with a mask, pulled him roughly, tossed him into the back seat of a car. New car smell.  Zoomed off, crashing into a pier.  Then hands stuffed a mask over his face, half dragged, half carried him to a utility passage pulled off the mask just as the car exploded. Everything went black again. 

The next sensations were of pain and the softness of bedsheets. A scent, like cedar, and a firm, comforting hand on his shoulder. “Boss?” Carl kept his eyes closed. It couldn’t be Anthony. He’d made that mistake once before and nearly lost his composure in front of Root. Had let tears fall down his face.  A wave of nausea washed over him. Carl bent over, vomited violently again and again. Not his most attractive moment. At least someone was holding a bucket for him.  He worked on remaining calm. 

“It’s OK,” Anthony said, rubbing Carl’s back until the retching stopped. Carl reminded himself that Anthony was gone and vomited again. “Just spit,” said the voice that was not Anthony.  “Good. You’re doing real good.”  Everything went dark and blurry.

“Boss?” the edge of panic in Anthony’s—no, not Anthony’s, Carl reminded himself again—voice pulled Carl back up from oblivion. He was resting against something soft. A hand was on his cheek.  A familiar hand.  He opened his eyes.

There was no scar on that face and the glossy dark hair had been bleached and hung forward, much longer than Carl had ever seen before, but it was Anthony.  Dressed in a soft grey sweater and corduroys.  His beautiful, beautiful Anthony. Carl’s eyes filled with tears.

“My Anthony?” Carl moaned and closed his eyes against the pain. “How?”

“Hold still, boss,” Anthony squeezed a shoulder as Carl tried to sit up, adjusted a tube inserted into Carl’s arm.  The pain settled into a dull throb.  Carl opened his eyes again.

Anthony pressed his lips against the top of Carl’s head. “Lean forward,” Anthony said as he helped Carl rinse the foul taste from his mouth, one arm tucked around Carl’s back, his hand on the bare area left exposed by a hospital gown.  “You’re doing good,” Anthony said again, then turned, keeping one hand on Carl’s skin, putting the other on his chest protectively, maneuvering his body between his boss and whatever he’d sensed. 

A tall, blonde man stepped out of the shadows, and Carl took in the room—glass doors with a view of the ocean, shrouded against the late afternoon light.  He was in a large hospital bed in an alcove surrounded by dark velvet drapes. The man spoke. “I would have just shot you, but the boss has a soft spot for you.”  Then he winked. “Logan Pierce.”

Carl reached into deeply into himself and smiled. “Carl Elias. Pleased to meet you, Logan. And I do feel as if I was shot.”

Logan smiled. “Well, I didn’t shoot you. But we did do some work. Replaced the slugs with soft plastic bullets.  Fooled everyone.”

“Even me,” said Carl. Logan smiled.  Anthony clenched his jaw. “Where am I?”

“Safe. You’ll be here while we get your new identity sorted out. Do you need anything?”

“It’s OK. I got it,” said Anthony. 

Carl looked at Logan blandly. “We brought you here yesterday,” Logan continued. “Anthony insisted on caring for you himself.”

“He’s my boss,” said Anthony simply. Carl smiled.

“Thank you for saving me, Logan,” Carl said, then moaned and closed his eyes, leaning onto Anthony’s arm. 

“I got it,” Anthony said again and Logan left them alone.

 

*-*-*

“Is that everyone?” Carl asked. Anthony nodded.

Carl’s body contracted with the agony of grief he hadn’t let himself feel, except in a brief conversation with Root. Monitors began to beep more loudly. “Don’t hurt yourself on the needle,” Anthony said and carefully pulled out the IV and then disconnected the monitors. Anthony eased onto the bed and gathered Carl close. “I thought you were dead,” Carl gasped. “And nothing mattered.  Nothing.”

“Harold and the machine?” Anthony asked.  

“They got me killed,” said Carl, then he remembered something. The reason Anthony had sacrificed himself. “Are you still sick?”

Anthony’s face momentarily went black with anger. “It was a fake. That chick said some computer switched the tests.”

Carl mulled this over, didn't bother to ask about the chick. He didn’t want to tell Anthony about the day he was nearly killed. “It did that to hurt you? Made you think you were dying?”  

“No. You.”  Carl ran fingers over the place where Anthony’s scar had once shown. A faint trace remained, if you knew where to look.

“What did they do to you?”

“I never liked it anyways,” said Anthony.

Carl’s heart constricted. “Why didn’t you say so?  We could have…”

Anthony shrugged and Carl felt an overwhelming wave of love.  “You always did anything I asked, Carlie.  And you loved me however I looked.” He didn’t bother to add that it had been enough for him.

“Really?” Carl said. 

Anthony chuckled. “Don’t go complaining about that smoking jacket during our loving reunion.”   Carl’s lips trembled. “Aw, boss,” Anthony said, voice shaking, as Carl fought back sobs.  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t….”

“You must have been so badly hurt,” Carl gasped out. “And I wasn’t there to take care of you.” Anthony’s face clouded.

“I almost didn't make it,” Anthony said, cleared his throat. “The only thing that kept me going was knowing that you might need me. I tried to get away.”  He pulled up a pant leg to show a black plastic ankle bracelet covering a bandage that went halfway up his calf.

“I nearly didn’t make it, either,” Carl whispered.

Anthony made a shocked little noise, cupped Carl’s face in a surprisingly soft hand.  “You’ve been out a couple of days. Just in case,” he said. “But you were never…”

“That’s not what I meant,” Carl said, flexing the hand Dominic had broken with a hammer. “Where are we, anyway?”

“Maine,” said Anthony.  “Middle of nowhere.  Not much to do. But the sunrises is nice.”  Carl rested against Anthony and watched the light fade over the ocean. “Hungry?” Anthony asked when the room had gone dark. 

“Not really,” said Carl. “You?”

Anthony pressed his lips against Carl’s head again. “I’m good.” He moved slightly and pressed their mouths together.

A light flicked on, and Logan was there with a bottle of sparkling water.  “How…” he began, and stopped when Anthony and Carl both raised their heads. “Oh,” he said, setting the water down on a table. “Oh. Wow.”

“Hello Logan,” said Carl as Logan said ‘wow’ once more.

“I’m sorry. I came to see if you were hungry,” stammered Logan. “I didn’t think.”  He looked at Anthony. “Wow. I didn’t… wow.” 

“Anthony?” Carl asked.  Anthony shook his head slightly. “Thank you, Logan, but we’re fine.” 

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Logan. “I didn’t realize. Did Harold know about this?”

“No, Logan. And we would appreciate it if you would keep our secret,” said Carl.  “I am truly grateful that you saved Anthony. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“I’ll knock next time,” said Logan. He walked to the bed, pulled a plastic key from his pocket and handed it to Anthony. “I apologize. I didn’t understand why you wanted to go so badly. We were just trying to keep you safe. I’m sorry.”  Anthony tilted his head.

“I could have said.”  Carl’s face broke into a happy smile, and he patted Anthony’s hand.

“Thank you again, Logan,” said Carl. They waited until the door clicked shut.  Carl unlocked the ankle bracelet for Anthony, then peeked below his hospital gown.  “Anthony, will you help me? I’m feeling uncomfortable.”

“Sure,” said Anthony. “But take these first. Before your head starts hurting again. You got a nasty bump on the back, too.” Carl obediently swallowed painkillers with a mouthful of water while Anthony pulled the drapes shut. Then Anthony carefully removed the tubes and electrodes. “You’re doing good,” he said while carefully working out the catheter.  “Relax, Carlie.”  Carl gasped as the tube came free and Anthony covered him again modestly.

“I’m sorry,” said Carl, curling forward, hands cupped over the space between his legs. “I know it’s not sexy.”

“You’re doing good,” Anthony said.  “I got to give you a shot.”  Carl nodded. Anthony did what was needful, then rubbed Carl’s back, carefully massaging the bruises with a special gel. When he was done, he kissed the top of Carl’s head again, then gave him a glass of water.  Carl tried to wave it off. “Please. Just a little. I don’t want you getting dehydrated. You want a shower? Wash off all that goop?”

“I’m not sure I can stand,” said Carl. 

“You won’t have to,” said Anthony. He helped Carl into the bathroom—an impressive expanse of marble and glass—and seated him on a bench before helping him remove the hospital gown.  He shed his own clothes, folding them neatly and setting them on a counter, to reveal a new collection of scars and a rippling set of muscles.

“My word, Anthony,” said Carl, tracing pink scar tissue at Anthony’s side and along one leg and an arm 

“It wasn’t good,” said Anthony. “Had stuff right through me.” Carl fingered the scar on Anthony’s arm “They sawed through the floor. The explosion pushed me down, chair and all.”

“You’ve been working out,” said Carl, fingers tracing a taut buttock.  

Anthony shrugged. “Not much to do.” He took Carl’s hand before the fingers strayed too far.  “You’re getting me riled up.” Carl smiled. “You’ve lost weight, too.”

“I lost my appetite after,” said Carl. Anthony squeezed Carl’s hand, touched the new bullet scar on his chest, lifted his eyes in a question. “Let’s not talk about it tonight.”  Anthony turned on the shower. They washed then dried off on fluffy towels. 

Anthony taped a new bandage to Carl’s forehead and coated his bruises with more pain gel, then opened another door. “Come to my room?”

“Of course, Bello,” said Carl. Anthony wrapped him in a towel and supported him as he walked. 

Carl left the towel on a chair, settled into Anthony’s bed, fingered a pile of books.  Travel guides to Italy.  Washington Irving.  Jane Austen.  Odd replacements for the well-thumbed copies of _The Art of War, The Prince,_ and various books of chess moves and military history that usually accumulated near the beds in Anthony’s apartments.

Anthony picked up Carl’s towel from the chair, hung it up neatly beside his own. He moved easily, but Carl could see the caution behind certain motions, the way Anthony flexed his hip and nodded as if testing his range of motion. Carl thought he’d never seen anything as beautiful. “Tired?”

“Exhausted,” said Carl.

“Hungry?” 

Carl started to shake his head, then stopped.  “Not yet.”

Anthony settled into the bed and took Carl in his arms. They lay quietly, bare skins together. Eventually, Anthony turned Carl’s face and kissed him.  They kissed for a long while, then broke apart, breathing raggedly.

“I’d forgotten what a wonderful kisser you are,” Carl murmured, touching Anthony’s cheek. “How good you taste. Wonderful.” Anthony nuzzled his face.  They kissed a while longer and fell asleep.

In the morning, they began to investigate their new scars in the early light, but Anthony pulled back when Carl’s face grew dark. “I don’t want to forgive them for what happened to you,” Carl said quietly. 

“You got revenge?” Anthony said. Carl nodded. “So it’s all square. I…” Anthony paused, licked his lips. Carl looked up, his face suddenly open again, eager to listen as he always was when Anthony spoke.  “I had a year almost to think and I want…”  his voice broke and Carl gripped his hand.  

“Tell me, Anthony,” Carl said. “It’s all right. What do you want?” 

Anthony swallowed, looked down. “I wanted it to be over then. Now I want to have time with you. Just us. Maybe take care of something besides a city that’s trying to kill us all the time. And I don’t want to kill people no more. We got enough revenge.  We won that city from men.  The only thing that got in our way was that Machine.”

“I’m sorry,” Carl said.  “For not protecting you better.”

“No, boss,” Anthony said, looking back up. “Don’t. You done your best. Dying made me think. I never had time on my own like that before.  Hardly anything to do but work out and read and walk by the water.” Carl waited. “I…” Anthony looked down, then up. “I shouldn’t have left you to do all the hard thinking. I should have helped you more, especially after Yogorov shot you that time.”

“Oh, no, Anthony,” Carl said, gently, touching his face.  “No.”

“It was wrong,” Anthony insisted.  “I know we asked you to be the boss, but it got too easy to just follow along. Be the muscle.”

“No,” Carl said, moving closer and kissing Anthony’s forehead. “You never, ever have to apologize to me. You’ve spent every minute of your life doing for me, and thinking about me, and protecting me. I counted on you every instant, for your thoughtfulness, for taking care of things I couldn’t do. I didn't realize until you were gone how much you did. And you always were the one who kept me thinking straight. Except once.” Anthony went very still.  “You asked me to let them kill you.”

“I’m sorry. I was so afraid they’d hurt you,” Anthony said. “And I thought I was dying.  It would have been a good death. Better than the other…”

Carl kissed Anthony’s forehead again.  “I couldn’t say no to you.  I never could.”

“Does that mean I can give you a good looking over?” Anthony asked.  “Make sure everything’s in working order?” 

Carl quivered. “If you like,” he murmured.  Anthony closed his mouth over Carl’s.


	2. The first kiss...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-canon, pre-slash Flashback. Carl remembers the first time he kissed Anthony.
> 
> “Carlie?” Anthony said finally.
> 
> “Yeah?”
> 
> “You been… all what you done for me… no one never treated me as good since my gramma died.” 
> 
>  
> 
> Originally posted in the Fan_Flashworks "shoulder" challenge

Carl still remembered their first kiss…not the one on the lips the evening they knew they couldn’t kid themselves about their feelings any longer, the night they accepted the type of men they were, but the first one, before they knew it had even been a real kiss.

They’d known each other for more than two years, mostly in the group home. Then Anthony was sent to share an apartment with his grandfather, and Carl turned sixteen and became emancipated, staying with Gloria until he found a tiny studio apartment. Bruce went to live with one of a seemingly endless series of uncles. When Anthony’s grandfather died, Carl took to sleeping on the couch, to keep Anthony company and help him clean up before social services kicked him out of the place. 

Anthony came back from his job at a gym one afternoon, hours early, looking white and grey, except for a purpling black eye.

“You’re early,” Carl called.  “Is everything ok?”

“I don’t feel too good,” Anthony said, and dropped to his knees in the space where his grandfather’s hospital bed had stood.  His lunch, uneaten in its bag, fell to the floor.

Carl, who had been unpacking groceries—mostly six-packs of soda and packs of candy bars they bought with food stamps, broke up and sold for a profit—was at his side in an instant. “My god, Anthony, you’re burning up.” Carl helped Anthony up and brought him into the bathroom, an arm firmly around his friend’s waist, flipped down the lid on the toilet. “Sit?” Anthony sat, half slumped against the sink and the wall, head bumping a towel bar, teeth chattering. Carl, remembering the last time he had a fever, started to fill the bathtub. “You need help?” Anthony fumbled the zipper on his jacket.

“Yeah,” said Anthony. Carl gently undressed his friend, leaving on his underwear, and helped him into the bathtub, avoiding touching the bruised spots on his side and arms. Anthony gulped back sobs of relief as he put a foot into the warmish water. “That’s better,” he said. Carl made sure Anthony could sit up, rested his head on a folded-up towel, then went back ot the front room.  He put Anthony’s lunch in the refrigerator and called Gloria, his foster mother.

“What do I do?” Carl asked. “It’s Anthony. He’s real sick. He didn’t even eat his lunch.”

“It sounds like flu,” Gloria said after Carl answered her questions. “What medicine do you have in the house? Do you have Tylenol? Something to help him sleep?” 

“Yeah,” said Carl, not knowing, but thinking of the bottles of pills left behind by old Mr. Marconi. “We got a lot of stuff.”

“Good,” said Gloria. “Give him pain pills—Tylenol if you have it—and keep him comfortable and hydrated. Stay with him. Don’t leave him alone. Don’t give him aspirin. Do you have food?” Anthony called for Carl.

“Yeah,” said Carl. “I just went to the store.” Anthony called again. “Sorry. I gotta go. Thanks. I love you. Thanks.”

“Call me if you need help. 

Anthony smiled gently when he saw Carl. “I got scared you was gone,” Anthony said, sheepishly, which sent a chill through Carl. “Sorry.”

“I was just talking to Gloria,” said Carl, squatting down by the tub, pressing Anthony’s shoulder. “You ready to get into bed?” Anthony nodded. They left his sodden underwear on the cracked tile floor while Carl helped him, wrapped in a tattered bath towel, to the bedroom and sat him on the bed. “You want pajamas on?”

“Yeah,” said Anthony, resting his head against Carl’s chest. “You won’t leave? You’ll stay?” Carl had never felt as protective of anyone or anything as he did in that moment. He cupped the back of Anthony’s head in a hand.  

“I’ll be right here,” said Carl, rubbing Anthony’s bare neck. “As long as you need me.”  He helped Anthony into ratty, mismatched pajamas, gave him Tylenol, and tucked him into the bed. “You hungry?” Anthony shook his head no and closed his eyes.

 

**** 

It was a long couple of days. Carl later remembered swallowing down panic at every noise of distress from his friend, and there were many such noises. Anthony slept fitfully most of the time, waking to swallow Tylenol and water or sweetened tea. The first time Carl came near the bed, Anthony cried out and flinched back, wide-eyed, as if he was a little child expecting to be beaten. So Carl spoke in low tones, calling Anthony by name, telling him that he was fine and gently wiping the sweat from his face or holding his hand. He knew Anthony wouldn’t want Bruce to see him like this, so he didn’t call. But Carl grew more and more anxious when Anthony refused any food, even soda or candy or orange juice. The only words he said were, “Carl” and “sorry.”

On the third morning, Anthony’s fever broke.  Carl looked through the cupboard, finding the same cans of beans and tuna left by the meals on wheels in case of winter storms—he’d eaten Anthony’s sandwiches himself—and then in the refrigerator at the stacks of candy bars and sodas and cheese that Anthony wouldn’t eat, a half-empty carton of orange juice, box of sugar cubes, half a loaf of bread, and a sleeve of saltine crackers. The vegetable drawer held half a bag of rice and five onions. He called Bruce. “I don’t want to leave him on his own. I ran out of tea and we don't got no soup.” Bruce went very quiet. Anthony could take on three opponents in a street fight.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thanks,” said Carl. “I appreciate it.”

Around lunchtime, the woman, Rosa, who had nursed old Mr. Marconi until he died, stopped by to pick up something she had forgotten. “He look bad,” Rosa said, hovering in the doorway, not approaching Anthony. “I can’t go close. It kill the old lady I take care of.”

“Don’t worry,” said Carl. “I can handle it.” He helped Rosa find her sweater, shooed her away from the folding table full of medicines left behind by Mr. Marconi. “You came here for the pills, didn’t you?” Carl’s voice held no hint of reproach.  Rosa nodded. 

“I got grandkids,” she said. “I no get enough welfare for everyone.”

Carl nodded.  He’d noticed her taking loaves of bread that Anthony had bought with food stamps. Anthony had shrugged.  Rosa had been the one to show them how to use borax to get rid of roaches. She also cooked for them sometimes, and they had more than enough usually. “Did you take anything else?”  

Rosa drew herself up, horrified. “No! These medicines…no one need it. That nice boy... I would give him half.” Carl nodded again.

“So, what happened to the robe and blanket? The ones Mr. Marconi was always complaining about?”

“He no say he need bedpan.” Carl closed his eyes. “I no want him be embarrassed in front of his boy.” She patted Carl on the cheek. “You a good boy.” She left, just as Bruce arrived dragging a wire cart.  He handed Carl a bag smelling of Chinese food and set another on the counter.

Carl unloaded a gallon of wonton soups and quarts of lo mein. Bottles of juice. Tea bags and honey. Bullion cubes and crackers. Oranges and grapes and lemons. Jars of peanut butter and grape jelly. Carl had only mentioned soup. “How much do we owe you?” 

Bruce frowned. “Don’t worry about it. I asked my uncle’s new girlfriend what to get and she ran out to the store while I was in the shower. I hope this one sticks around. She was real nice about it… ordered everything from the Chinese for me and packed up the cart. I guess grapes and oranges is good for sick people. The lo mein is for you, Carlie. You look like complete crap.”

“I look better than Anthony,” said Carl. “His fever went away this morning but I, uh, I still can’t get him to eat.” Bruce’s face went blank.  “It has me worried. 

Bruce was stunned.  "You can't get him to _**eat**_?" Carl shook his head. "Not even peanut butter crackers? Them's his favorite."  Carl shook his head again, fighting down panic.  What if Anthony died? “I ain’t never seen him turn up his nose at nothing,” said Bruce, seriously.  He’d known Anthony in juvie, years before they met Carl. “Not never. Even with his face all cut up. This ain’t like him.” Carl waited for the inevitable explosion. “Dammit, Carl, why didn't you call me?”  
  
“He’s been real sick,” said Carl, mildly setting everything in the refrigerator out of habit, even though there hadn’t been roaches since they put down the borax. “I didn’t know what to do. He won't even drink a Coke,” Carl added, face in the refrigerator, stacking up cans to hold up the loose shelf while Bruce silently processed this information. Anthony loved sugary drinks. They had been a rare treat during his deprived childhood, something he associated with his grandparents, who had always been kind to him. 

As always, when faced with a problem that stumped Carl, Bruce came up with a practical solution. “Hang on,” Bruce said, running out, and coming back in a few minutes with ice cream  and popsicles and a loaf of Italian bread. Carl was in the bedroom, brushing the hair back from Anthony’s forehead.    

“It woke him up,” Carl said in answer to Bruce’s unspoken question. As Bruce moved closer, his foot dragged on the floor, Anthony’s eyes flew open and he grabbed Carl’s hand. Bruce stepped back, but Carl spoke, and Anthony looked up into Carl’s face. “You’re doing good, Anthony,” Carl said. “It’s okay now. You’re okay. Bruce came to visit.” Anthony smiled as his eyes closed again. “He’s doing a lot better,” Carl said blandly, while he put the ice cream and popsicles in the freezer. “The first day was pretty rough.” Bruce swore under his breath.

“You clean up. Get some rest,” said Bruce. “I’ll sit with him.” Carl objected. “You ain’t slept in three days,” Bruce insisted. Carl took a quick shower and curled up on the battered couch, falling asleep before he could turn on the television.  Anthony’s voice roused him hours later.  When Carl sat up, a ratty blanket fell to the floor.  Bruce had tucked him in as he slept 

“Sorry,” Anthony said, his mouth a frightening grey. Then Carl took in the red and blue stained popsicle sticks adhering to an empty cardboard box he had set up as a table. Carl picked them up and wiped the box before the sugar attracted pests. Bruce had fallen asleep in a wooden chair missing one arm, half sitting and half lying on the foot of Anthony’s bed, the way Carl had for three nights. Anthony was too weak to move against the weight on the blankets. 

“You need to get up?” Anthony nodded. Carl helped Anthony up without waking Bruce and half supported, half-carried him to the bathroom.  They paused halfway and Anthony rested his head on Carl’s shoulder.  “Just a little further,” Carl said.  

At the sound of the toilet flushing, Bruce staggered out of the bedroom.  He lifted Anthony easily, carrying him to the front room, setting him onto the sofa and covering him with the blanket. “He needs clean sheets,” Bruce said, low, to Carl, as Anthony’s eyes fluttered and then closed. “My uncle’s girlfriend said the dirty sheets could make him sick again.”

“OK,” said Carl. While Bruce produced a can of Lysol and started spraying things, Carl looked in the closets and found some sheets and couple of ratty pillowcases tucked in an old suitcase on top of a bunch of dresses.  In the bedroom, Bruce had opened the window.  Carl changed the sheets, taping together a few holes with a roll of masking tape, and fluffed the pillows. He closed the window and went out to find Anthony wearing one of his grandfather’s old shirts with his pajama bottoms.  Carl brought the blanket, and Bruce carried Anthony to the bed and set him down.

Bruce propped Anthony up with the pillows, wrapped up the dirty sheets and blankets and tied them with kitchen string that old Mr. Marconi had hoarded in a drawer while Carl rooted around the house, finally coming up with a stained afghan made to look like flowers, but with a burn hole in it.  “I’ll get these washed.” Bruce stayed, talking to Anthony, while Carl heated up some broth from the wonton soup and brought it back in a chipped mug. “Go eat something, Carl. You look totally done in.”  Carl went back into the kitchen and had a couple of wontons and a can of soda while Bruce fed Anthony. 

“You wanna try a little soup?” Carl heard Bruce’s voice, calm and unfussed, as if he took care of a sick friend every day. “It’s from the Chinese. If you don’t like it, I got other stuff, too.”  Carl heard Anthony’s embarrassed grunt. “That okay? How about a little more?” Bruce asked. Carl wandered in as Anthony accepted more Tylenol. He sipped grape juice obediently from a paper cup when Bruce held it up for him, a careful hand on his shoulder. “There’s just a swallow left,” Bruce said and Anthony drained the cup. “I’d stay all night, but I got a job in the morning,” Bruce said.

“No,” said Carl, arranging the covers and then finding socks for Anthony’s bare feet. “You’ve been here for hours. I got a real good rest in. Maybe you can come back in a couple of days and keep him company while I see if we still got jobs. I called in, but you know how it is.”

“Yeah,” said Anthony. “Thanks for the popsicles and everything, Bruce.” It was the first sentence he’d uttered in days, and Carl nearly collapsed with relief.

Bruce smiled. “Sure thing.”

Carl walked Bruce to the door. “You done real good, Carl,” said Bruce, gripping his shoulder. “You guys staying? Now that the old man…?”

“Nah,” said Carl. “He got kicked out. He can stay with me until we find somewhere better. It’s just around the next block. We got a week. Hopefully he can walk by then or we can find a wheelchair or something.” 

“Over where those houses are all close together?” Carl nodded. “I’ll help find you a better place if I can,” said Bruce. “I’m… I love him like a brother, but I don’t know if I could….  all the things you done for him. I’m real grateful, Carlie.”

“I feel the same about what you did today,” said Carl. “You got him to eat. It’s been days.”

Bruce laughed. “He’s always been a good eater, far as I know.”

“He hasn't talked this much in days neither,” Carl said. “Thank you, Bruce.” Carl held out his hand, and Bruce hugged him.

 

****

“Sorry,” said Anthony a few minutes later, while Carl helped him wash the blue and red and purple stains from his face.

“I’m just glad you finally ate something,” said Carl.

“Carlie?” Anthony mumbled when Carl had finished.  

“You okay?”

Anthony shook his head, looked down at the sheets. “I feel real bad. Achy.”

Carl smoothed Anthony’s dirty hair, grateful that his friend was well enough to talk again. “Where does it hurt, Anthony?”

“All over,” said Anthony in a small, quavery voice. Carl gave found the mentholated ointment leftover from Anthony’s grandfather and an old t-shirt, like his mother had done for him when he was little. But Anthony recoiled at the smell when Carl opened the little blue jar. “Sorry,” Anthony said in a little boy voice Carl didn’t recognize.

“What do you want?” Carl asked, half to himself, and Anthony bowed his head and whispered ‘Gramma.’  Then Anthony’s shoulders shook. Carl felt his own eyes fill with tears while Anthony choked and sobbed. Clearly, it had been a very long time since Anthony had let himself cry. “It’s okay. You’re doing real good, Anthony,” Carl said, easing onto the bed. Carefully, he put his arms around Anthony, half afraid he’d pull away. But Anthony rested against Carl while he wept, making a soft keening noise. Carl rubbed Anthony’s back, tears running down his own face. “You’re doing real good. I got you. Don’t you worry. It’s okay now, Anthony.”

“Sorry,” Anthony sniffled, trying to sit back up. Carl helped him. 

“Don’t be,” said Carl, keeping a hand on Anthony’s arm.  He watched Anthony wipe his chapped nose with a Kleenex, then went to the bathroom run warm water on a washcloth and found a pile of clean, unfamiliar towels. Bruce. Carl went back and wiped Anthony’s face. “How about I…” Anthony looked up, and Carl paused. “When I was sick…” Anthony tilted his head. “My mother—my real one—would hold me and rub my back until I fell asleep.”

Anthony looked back down shyly, but he didn’t say no. “I don’t want to make you sick.”

“It’s too late to worry about that,” said Carl. He kicked off his shoes and shed his jeans, then crawled into the bed and pulled Anthony’s head against his shoulder.  He was about to ask how Anthony felt but they were both already asleep.

They slept through the night and the next day and into the evening. Anthony stirred first, tried to sit up and slumped back against Carl. “Anthony?” Carl’s eyes snapped open. “How you feeling?”

“It was worse yesterday,” said Anthony.

“Okay,” said Carl, rubbing Anthony’s back. “You need to get up?”

“In a minute,” said Anthony, pressing against Carl.

“All right,” said Carl, gently kneading Anthony’s sore muscles, marveling at the almost animal responsiveness of that beautiful body under his touch. Anthony was too weak to walk or sit up on his own, but Carl ran him a bath when he asked, and helped him wash his hair. “You hungry?” Carl said, while he helped Anthony dry off and put on clean pajama pants, a t-shirt, socks and an old sweater of his grandfather’s. The clothes hung off him, and Carl felt his heart twist at his friend’s vulnerability.  And his own.  This illness had shown him how little they had, not like Gloria’s house which seemed to burst with hidden troves of canned soup and tattered sheets and pillows and towels and old pajamas. 

“Nah,” said Anthony.

“I think you should try to eat something,” said Carl, and Anthony shrugged for the first time in four days. Carl cleared his throat to keep from bursting into tears of relief.  “Maybe sit on the couch with me and have some ice cream. Or maybe a little more soup? I can air out the room again.”

“All right, Carlie. Thanks. 

“You’re welcome, Anthony.” In the end, Anthony swallowed some soup with the wontons cut up small and a few spoonfuls of ice cream before wanting to lie down. Carl took another shower and put on some of the grandfather’s pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt. He rinsed out a few things with the dish soap and hung them up before going into the bedroom.  
  
Anthony opened his eyes and patted the blanket. Without thinking overly much about it, Carl climbed onto the bed and rubbed Anthony’s back. 

They lay for a moment, lost in their thoughts. “I’m going to peel an orange. Maybe you want a few grapes?” Carl said finally. Anthony grunted, but he smiled when Carl came back into the room with his hands full of orange segments and grapes wrapped in damp napkins printed with Chinese dragons.  Anthony opened his mouth when Carl offered him a grape, then another.

“You feeling better?” said Carl.

“I wish I could stand up,” said Anthony. “It don’t feel right.”

“You wanna turn off the light?” Carl asked. Anthony shrugged.

“Where you gonna be?” Anthony asked. “You won’t leave?” Carl took Anthony’s hand.   

“I’ll stay here if it’s okay with you,” said Carl.  Anthony nodded. Carl crawled under the covers. “Good night, Anthony.”

“Good night, Carlie.” 

Carl woke when Anthony made a small noise of discomfort. “You okay?”  Anthony went still.

“Sorry,” he said, shifting his hips away from Carl. “I’m sorry.”

Carl shook himself slightly, and reached to feel Anthony’s hands and forehead. “Hey. What’s wrong?” Carl shifted to sit up and bumped against Anthony’s swollen erection. “Oh,” he said. Anthony suppressed a whimper of embarrassment and discomfort. “You want some privacy?”  Anthony’s shaking fingers flexed weakly on Carl’s hand. 

“I, uh, I can’t hold it,” Anthony said. I would be months before they understood what this night would mean for them, but at the time, it seemed like just another problem of illness.

“You need some help,” Carl said.  Anthony nodded. “Okay, Anthony,” Carl said.  “It’s okay.” At first, Carl thought only of easing his friend’s pain as he unbuttoned Anthony’s pajama bottoms and slid fingers over the smooth, soft shaft of his penis. He tucked his other hand behind Anthony’s head at the sharp intake of breath. “Okay?” Anthony nodded. 

“Yeah,” said Anthony. Carl pressed Anthony against him more firmly.

“You’re doing good, Anthony,” Carl murmured. He felt himself harden and throb as he explored Anthony’s body, and pulled his friend even closer when Anthony whimpered before coming into Carl’s hand. Anthony caught his breath, face pressed against Carl’s neck.  When he raised his head, Carl kissed his forehead, then used the still-damp dragon napkins to wipe them off.  He kissed Anthony’s forehead again while he helped him clean up. “You okay?” Anthony nodded. “Thirsty?”

“Yeah,” said Anthony. Carl came back with two paper cups of cola because roaches wouldn't come after the leftovers. Anthony’s hands still shook, so Carl held the cup for him. Then they rested in silence. “Carlie?” Anthony said finally.

“Yeah?”

“You been… all what you done for me… no one never treated me as good since my gramma died.” 

“You’re my friend,” said Carl, simply, kneading Anthony’s neck. “You saved me those times, too.” 

Anthony stayed quiet a minute. “I never seen you look scared before.” Carl’s fingers stopped moving.

“I was terrified,” Carl said. “Anthony, you wouldn't eat. That’s not like you.”

“Sorry,” Anthony said again. “It hurt real bad.”

“No, Anthony. Don’t apologize. I was… afraid that I would lose you. You’re….so important to me,” said Carl, considering that Anthony had just lost the last person in his family.  That Anthony had no one else now. Not even a foster mother. “I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.”

“You too,” said Anthony. “Thanks for taking care of me, Carlie.”

“You’re welcome,” said Carl.   

Anthony nestled against his shoulder and fell asleep, but Carl lay awake for some time, watching his friend’s face in the moonlight. He brushed Anthony’s hair away from his face and kissed his forehead one last time before falling asleep himself. 


	3. Where we're needed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carl asks why the Machine saved him and Anthony.
> 
> This is a post-canon chapter

Anthony lifted his head and smoothed Carl’s eyebrows, carefully avoiding the mass of swollen flesh on his forehead, then touched the dark marks under his eyes. 

“You look done in, Carlie.  I’ll get you more of those pills.” Carl took the pills Anthony brought him, and then settled back against the shoulder of the man he loved.  He drifted to sleep, and when he woke up, Anthony kissed the top of his bald head, and tightened strong arms around him. “I think you should try to eat something,” Anthony murmured.  Carl shifted, and Anthony rubbed his back.

“All right, Anthony,” Carl said. “If you think so.”

“I do,” said Anthony, kissing him again.

Anthony stood, moved to put on trousers. “No,” Carl said. “Wait.”  Anthony chuckled softly, and helped Carl into grey plaid flannel pajama bottoms, a soft pink t-shirt, slippers, and a cozy bathrobe. He watched as Anthony padded, still naked, into the bathroom and came back with painkillers and a glass of water. Anthony unfolded a pair of glasses and handed them to Carl before dressing in pale corduroys, t-shirt, and a soft flannel shirt.

“You want some help into the kitchen?”  Anthony asked.

“I want your arm around me,” Carl answered.  Anthony smiled.

“I can do that,” Anthony said.

In the kitchen, coffee was already started. Anthony sat Carl in a deep, comfortable chair in front of a window with a view of the ocean.  He moved an ottoman for Carl to put up his feet, and covered him with a blanket. Then he tore holes in the centers of sliced bread, which he fried in a pan. Opened the refrigerator. Sliced potatoes thin and set them on a bed of shredded peppers and onions in a pan while he set bacon on a grill, then cracked eggs into the bread. Logan drifted in, drawn by the smells, and poured cups of coffee.

“You’ll love this breakfast. Anthony is a great cook. His steaks…” Logan started, taking a seat at the kitchen counter, then stopped at the amused expression on Carl’s face. “Oh,” he said, as Carl held the mug, sniffing deeply, then setting it on a low table. “I guess you already know.” Anthony wiped his eyes. Carl had been the cook. 

“Tell me about yourself, Logan,” Carl said, to call attention away from Anthony’s expression. 

“Me?”  Logan asked, surprised.  “Why?”

“You,” Carl agreed. “I’m interested. How did you come to be here? What were you before this?” Anthony set up a small tray table for Carl and handed Logan a plate before pulling up a wooden chair and taking a seat next to his friend.  Carl rested a hand on Anthony’s knee.

As they ate, Logan explained how he’d met John, Harold and the Machine.  Carl listened attentively, asked the right questions to draw him out. Logan took a last bite of egg, made a guttural noise of satisfaction. “It wants me to ask where you’d like to go. The Machine. You’ve both been erased.  All of your official records. Even the hard copies were destroyed. We’re starting again from scratch, reassigning everything. You can be whoever you want.”

“You want more?” Anthony asked.  He’d finished his own plate, nudged Carl, who took a bite of fried bread. 

“Please, yes, I’d love more,” said Logan eagerly.  “I haven’t had his cooking in days,” he explained to Carl. “I was away until yesterday and then he was too busy looking after you. He didn’t leave your side.”

Carl beamed at Anthony, who had moved back to the stove. “Thank you, Anthony.”

Anthony tilted his head, grinning.  “My pleasure.”

“Logan, as long as I have my friend with me, I’ll be happy.”  Carl looked up at his lover.  “Anthony? What do you want?” 

“I always wanted to see a whale,” said Anthony. “You ever had a lobster roll?  That sounds interesting. I seen a sign.”

“You can do that here,” said Logan.  Anthony raised an eyebrow.  “I _said_ I was sorry about the ankle bracelet. I’m sorry. Really, truly sorry. If we knew you wanted a lobster roll…”

“I could have said something,” Anthony agreed. “It’s OK.  You been real nice to me otherwise.”

Logan laughed.  “I’m glad.  So Carl, where do you want to go?” 

“It depends on why we’re needed,” said Carl, sipping his coffee and making a small, surprised noise. “Anthony, this coffee is amazing.” Anthony looked up and tilted his head. “Is that just a hint of cinnamon?”

“Yes. Thanks, boss,” he smiled. “I been reading some cookbooks. I like having time to read and work out. Be peaceful.”

Logan, good as he was with people, had never met anyone quite like Carl. He was reminded of Anthony, who had also been a surprise.  A quiet, thoughtful surprise, and much more bookish than anyone would have expected. “Needed? I’m not sure I understand.” 

“You must need us for something,” said Carl calmly. “And it must be important. Or your Machine wouldn’t have saved us, of all people. Not with all the other things that have gone wrong for her. So, we should be where we can help.”

“Her?” Logan asked.

“That’s what Root told me,” Carl said.  “I have no reason to disbelieve Root. She seems like an expert. More so in some ways than Harold.”

“No wonder they like you so much,” Logan paused and his cell phone pinged. “The Machine wants you to teach it how to be good with people.” Anthony’s eyes flicked to Carl, and Logan pulled out a phone whose camera had been taped over and read out a text.  “How you built trust in so many people while doing terrible wrongs.  How to hold onto love and loyalty and friendship.  How it feels to get revenge.” Logan’s eyebrows raised. “What powers men of an older time before men were civilized. Destroy this phone.”  Logan looked up. “That was for me.” 

Logan pulled the sim card out of the phone and put it down the garbage disposal, dropped the phone in a glass of water. 

Carl met Anthony’s eye. “Why me, Logan? Why us?”  Anthony handed Logan a refilled plate, sat back next to Carl.

Logan took a mouthful of potato, making a low noise of appreciation. “Thanks.  You are the best cook, Anthony.” Carl raised his eyebrows. “Because John said you were very much like Harold,” Logan said. Carl nodded. “Because Agent Carter decided to save you. The Machine remembers Harold’s friend.  Harold can’t explain that type of friendship, but you can. It’s important.  Something Samaritan will never know. And because everyone says you are an excellent teacher.”

“Will we stay here?” Carl asked. “It’s beautiful but it feels extremely exposed.”

“It’s safe enough for now,” Logan said. “We have measures in place. You probably need some rest. But you’ll only have a few hours. I’ll finish this and do the dishes.  And then, later, I will go get some lobster rolls.  Or maybe lobster salad and we can make the rolls.”

“Yes,” said Carl, breaking across the lobster-related conversation.  “I think I do need some rest.”  Anthony mopped up a last bit of egg yolk with a potato.

As Logan began running water into the sink, Anthony leaned in. “A little more?” he said softly.  Carl squeezed his knee and took another bite of food.

Carl patted Anthony’s knee. “It’s delicious….”  Anthony’s brow furrowed.

“You need to lay down.”  Carl nodded.  Anthony stood, and helped Carl up. “That’s all right, boss. Just lean on me,” Anthony said, putting an arm around Carl’s waist. 

“Thank you, Anthony,” Carl said, patting Anthony’s chest.

In the bedroom, Carl held on to Anthony’s arm. “Don’t go,” he said. Anthony cupped Carl’s face in a hand and kissed him.

“No,” Anthony said and helped Carl into the bed.

“Get undressed? Come under the covers?” Carl asked. Anthony shed his shirt and corduroys.  “All the way?”  Anthony pulled off his t-shirt and underwear, then climbed into bed and pulled Carl against him, rubbing his back over the t-shirt.

“What now?” 

“Wait and hope,” said Carl.  “And then, maybe, we lead a nice life. The life I always wanted to give you.”

“We done a lot of…” Anthony stopped, cleared his throat. 

Carl’s eyes filled with tears.  “We were warriors. We died.  Now we can be reborn as whatever we want.  What do you want?” Carl paused, realizing something.  “Will you want to stay with me?” Carl’s voice quavered uncertainly. “After all that’s happened?” As always,  Anthony understood. He snuggled Carl closer, wrapped a leg around him, and kissed his head again.

“As long as you want me,” said Anthony, his voice breaking.

“Are you sure? This is all… It isn’t what we expected.”  Carl took a breath and did the most difficult thing he’d ever done. “You could have a fresh start.”

“All I ever wanted was to be near you,” Anthony said. “From the first day I met you.”


	4. Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Anthony, Carl, and Bruce became brothers.
> 
> "Bruce made a little noise, clapped a hand on Carl’s shoulder. Anthony and Carl turned faces up, serious, ready to listen, their hands still together. Three boys pledging friendship and lifelong loyalty without realizing it."
> 
> Written for the fan_flashworks "rush" challenge

They hadn’t met under the best circumstances.  Carl landed in a group home after another fight at school.  The social worker decided that his foster mother, Gloria, couldn't control him.  Carl wasn’t sure he could control himself, tamp down the roiling rage that threatened to engulf his soul. 

That first day, he’d met Bruce. Most of the rooms had three or four or even five kids crammed in together, but Bruce didn't have a roommate yet.  He’d been put off in a smaller room that had once been an office. “Ain’t no one in a rush to share with that one,” Carl heard a voice as the social worker led him along the hallway.

When Carl walked in, Bruce was on his bed, reading _._  Bruce looked up, a stony expression on his face. Carl nodded, pulled a copy of _The Prince_ out of a pocket and sat down on the other bed.

“Machiavelli?” Bruce asked. He said the “ch” like in “chop” but Carl didn’t bother to correct him.

“It gets the job done,” said Carl. Bruce nodded. They read quietly until dinner time. “How bad is it?” Carl asked.

“You done juvie?”  Carl shook his head and Bruce’s face drew in. “Stick with me,” said Bruce. Carl made a surprised noise. “You’re nice and quiet. I could do worse. You better brace yourself. It gets bad here after dark.” 

“Thank you…” 

“Moran. Bruce Moran.”

“Carl Elias.” Carl held out a hand as he had been taught to do as a child. Bruce gave him a funny look, but accepted. And so their initial understanding was cemented into friendship.  The dining room went silent when they sat together, but Carl assumed it was just because he was new.  After the first night, he understood that no one wanted to think about what was about to happen to him. Bruce hadn’t said much, but he made a lot of noise out in the hallway when he thought Carl might start to cry. And when he went back in a few minutes later and saw Carl, dry-eyed, reading the house rules carefully, said “You’re one cool customer. I could do a lot worse.”

Someone stopped by their room every ten minutes or so the first few days, to find Carl and Bruce reading quietly or working on homework together. No one official seemed to notice that Bruce did a brisk trade in contraband, mostly candy and cigarettes. Carl asked everyone about themselves, collecting their stories as if they were treasure. Carl didn’t know how much trade had improved until Bruce slipped him ten dollars and then another five a few days later.

“You’re good for business,” Bruce explained as they snuck up the back stairs one day a few weeks later. “I want to be an accountant.”

“It’s a good living,” said Carl.

But Bruce had grown up with a father and uncles and cousins in another kind of business. “It’s a safe way to be in on the action. Run things from the shadows.”

“You’d like Machiavelli,” said Carl pronouncing it correctly. Bruce winked and Carl could see he’d already known that. “Want to shake things up without too much fuss?”

“Tell me,” Bruce said.  Carl explained how to get rid of the night crew. Stage a mass breakout, but then pretend to have been following the house rules.

“It should work,” Carl said. The previous night’s session of ‘correction’ had left more than just the two of them shaking and afraid to sleep.

“You’re okay,” Bruce said. “You’d make a good boss.” Carl started.

“Boss?” he asked. “You want a boss?”

Bruce smiled.  “Front man.  You have a way with people. Cool head. Ain’t never in a rush. I’m good behind the scenes. In the shadows. We’d need some muscle, though.  Smart muscle.” 

“Muscle?” Carl asked.  Bruce seemed to consider this question carefully, while Carl waited.

“To keep the crew in line. It’s tricky. We need someone who can handle himself, but doesn’t like getting violent. Quiet but a real part of the team.”

“The team,” said Carl, flatly. 

“Us. Triumvirate.  Like the Romans.  I like the Romans,” said Bruce. “They were real soldiers. Not to be in any rush… but we could do worse than sticking together.”

“Let me know when you find someone,” said Carl, not knowing how serious Bruce was being. The next morning, Bruce mailed a letter. Carl thought it was an odd thing to do, but he didn’t say anything.

 

****

A week later, they came back from school to find Anthony, still in a juvie uniform, holding a pile of clothes, sheets, and towels. He stood silently, as if he could remain still and watchful for hours without tiring, his face green and purple around a black eye that could not quite mask the livid scar across his cheek. The custodian, a decent enough man who was hiding an illegal gun business in the basement, had just finished cramming a bed in next to Carl’s. The frames practically touched.

“Hope you boys like each other,” he said. “We can’t bunk the beds after what happened last week.” Twenty kids had gone missing, leaving pillows in their places, shown up at the emergency room in a group, covered in bruises. They had copies of the house rules with them, which said to go to the emergency room if they felt they were in danger.  A few fainted and had to be rehydrated. Half were diagnosed as malnourished. One had cigarette burns in private places. Another had a broken foot. Even in that neighborhood, it drew attention. Carl, questioned later by the social workers, said he wasn’t too surprised. No one wanted to be there after lights out. He’d been stripped naked and beaten the first night.

Carl, surprisingly to the social workers, was earning A’s and B’s in all of his classes at the high school—he’d always had good grades—and belonged to the chess club.  Bruce, who had been failing half of his courses, but skating by on math and history, had shown a sudden improvement in the month since Bruce had moved into his room. The director was forced to fire the entire night staff. The new staff, mainly friends of the custodian, only cared about their gun business and having a place to stash their drugs out of the way of the Moretti gang.  They spent much less time humiliating and tormenting their charges.  Bruce and Carl stayed out of the way, but it was noted that there was no vandalism on their hallway.

“I’ll give you a hand,” Carl said, to call attention away from Bruce’s bulging pockets. Carl and Bruce pulled off their jackets.

Carl rested his book bag, full of discarded library books and cigarettes, on his bed, and Anthony set his pile on the other. They helped shift two desks together next to Bruce’s bed. The third left them stymied. “Just shove it in front. We can share,” said Bruce, turning. “Save you some work carrying that thing back to the elevator.” The custodian’s eyebrows lifted.  “We got it,” Bruce said and the man left.

Anthony started to unbutton his uniform. Carl noted the absence of red marks on those hands, saw that this newcomer had taken a beating but not fought back. Carl got up to close the door against curious eyes. 

“Thanks,” said Anthony, and Carl met his eye for the first time.  Anthony’s face opened into a bright smile, reminding Carl of a flower—a rose—unfurling in one of those school films about plants. Carl felt his face mirroring that cheerful welcome, wondered how such a beautiful, friendly boy had survived juvie. It took Carl a moment to realize that Bruce and Anthony already knew each other, that Anthony had turned that disarming smile from him to Bruce.

“Ain’t never seen you smile before,” said Bruce, answering Carl’s question. “You can get far with a smile like that." 

“Been saving it up special,” Anthony said and Bruce laughed, then moved forward to hug him.

“I missed you,” Bruce said, his arm still around Anthony’s shoulders.

“Who’s this?” Anthony jerked his head at Carl. 

“He’s okay,” said Bruce. “Smart. This is Anthony. My wingman in juvie.”

Carl held out his hand. Anthony’s eyes flicked to Bruce’s and Carl caught a hint of a nod before Anthony reached out as well. Carl would never forget the surprising softness of that palm against his, the electric tingle of destiny and desire, even though he could not have put his feelings into words in that moment. “Carl,” said Carl.

“Carl,” said Anthony, nodding, a smile still playing across his handsome face.

Bruce made a little noise, clapped a hand on Carl’s shoulder.  Anthony and Carl turned faces up, serious, ready to listen, their hands still together. Three boys pledging friendship and lifelong loyalty without realizing it. “You can help Anthony.  Keep him out of trouble at school.” Anthony’s face closed. He dropped Carl’s hand, and Carl resisted the dual urges to take a step back from that angry glare and to fold Anthony in his arms. “He’s okay,” said Bruce again, shaking Anthony’s shoulder, waiting. 

“I don’t read too good,” Anthony said to the floor between their dirty sneakers. Bruce clapped them both on the backs.

“Get changed. He’ll show you,” said Bruce. “Got me to pass a test on all that stupid poetry.  All the tests.” Anthony shrugged. Bruce rifled in a desk and came up with a pile of papers. “The stuff for this week,” he said, shoving them in Carl’s hands. “Help him,” Bruce said. “Like you did me. Last guy just filled the papers in himself. Useless.”

“Is it all right if we talk?” Carl asked. “You seem to like it quiet.” Carl found himself thinking that a smile like that could take Bruce places.

Bruce slapped Carl on the arm again. “Just keep it down to a dull roar,” he said. 

Carl looked over the papers while Anthony changed, shrugging a tattered t-shirt over a scatter of old scars and a number of newer bruises. The ribs showed at his sides as he flexed. “They not feeding you enough?” Bruce asked. Anthony shrugged and Bruce tossed him an apple and a candy bar.  Offered a snickers to Carl, who shook his head. Bruce tossed it over to Anthony.

Anthony ate the apple hungrily, gnawing all the way to the core, then sat next to Carl at the desk they could still reach, nibbling the chocolate as if he hadn’t had anything sweet in a long time. “Read this?” Carl asked.  Anthony stumbled through a few words, his eyes darting toward Bruce, colored deep red, and stopped.  He hunched over defensively, tapping his feet against the chair legs. Bruce looked up from his book, _History of the Peloponnesian Wars,_ (Carl had taken it out of the trash at school) as Carl pulled the paper away, touched Anthony’s knee.

“Sorry,” Carl said. The feet stopped tapping. “That was my fault. I should have explained.” Anthony’s shoulders relaxed. “It’s about the presidency,” Carl continued. “History. You want to try something else?” 

“Like the one now or old ones?” Anthony asked the paper.

“The first ones,” said Carl. “How we got them at first.”

Anthony looked up. “Like George Washington?” Carl nodded, startled by Anthony’s level of interest.  “I like him,” said Anthony. “Real warrior. Didn’t want to be the king. You know he was right here in New York and New Jersey? My gramma brought me to see. All the places. In the summers… before…” Anthony’s face went dark a moment. “They had films and everything.”

“I didn't know that,” said Carl, genuinely interested. “We never went anyplace when I was a kid. Tell me about it?” Carl had a way with people and Anthony, unlike himself, spoke about the first president. Carl looked at the sheet, asked questions. Anthony answered them, not quite eagerly, but with more willingness than Carl had expected. “You remembered all that real good,” said Carl, impressed. Anthony went extremely still, the foil from the half-eaten chocolate bar crinkling in his fingers. “You got all the dates right and everything.” Anthony shrugged.

“How about I read this paper first?” Anthony shrugged, but he watched attentively while Carl read aloud, a finger under each word as he went.  After a few lines, Anthony said a word before Carl did. Then another one. “Good,” said Carl, touching Anthony’s knee gently. “You’re doing real good.” After that, Carl paused more often to let Anthony chime in. Bruce, lulled by the quiet voices of his two friends, smiled behind his book.

 

****

At school, Anthony and Carl had the same lunchtime and sat together with some guys Anthony knew at juvie. The teachers eyed them suspiciously. One of the guys, Nico, liked to talk. “You must be real tough to bunk in with Moran. He’s a lot more okay now, but in juvie, whew.” Carl looked at Anthony, who shrugged, head down over a free school lunch.  Carl had been horrified by the food, but Anthony ate it with evident enjoyment. When he finished, Carl picked up an apple and swapped trays. Anthony looked his question, and Carl nodded. “He was one scary little dude.  Hooked up with that whole Moran crew.” The other guys laughed.  “Only one I ever saw him like was Anthony here. That’s what got us in.” Anthony shrugged again. Carl’s insides went to ice. “He’s okay underneath, but man, can that kid handle hisself.”

“So what about that George Washington?” asked Carl, while Anthony finished the second lunch. 

“Those guys aren’t so tough,” said Nico and the others agreed.  Anthony caught Carl’s eye, his face expressionless.  They were referring to another high school. Carl wondered why Anthony spent time with them until he casually asked what had happened in their classes. In only a few minutes, Carl understood the secret workings of the whole school. Anthony tilted his head in emphasis. The guys wanted to cut class, but Anthony shook his head.

“Nah,” he said. “Carlie wants to go to a club after.” The faculty moderator dropped a box of chess pieces when Anthony and Nico sloped in after Carl, who bent to pick them up. The newcomers listened carefully to the explanation of the game.

“It’s like war,” said the teacher, which immediately drew Nico’s attention and respect.  Carl kept an eye on Anthony, who seemed to learn the game almost instantly. The teacher paired him up with a younger kid whose glasses were taped together at the temple.  Anthony won the second game, and the teacher moved him.  

The next day, a few others joined them. Aside from Anthony, the others never got very good, but they stayed out of trouble and made friends with the brainy kids—the ones they might have beaten up in other circumstances. The lunch table became an informal study hall, and grades went up and behavior problems went down. One of the guys, Joey, had an uncle who was a policeman and helped him go to city college. That would come in handy one day.  Even handier, at least for Bruce, were the chess club members: most of them went on to college. 

 

****

One afternoon, about a week after Anthony arrived, Bruce had a visit with one of his uncles, which left Carl and Anthony alone for a few hours. Carl took a chance and wrote out the alphabet and went over each of the letters. Anthony didn’t know the names of any of them except A. Feeling foolish, Carl sang the alphabet song. “I always thought that was stupid,” Anthony said thoughtfully. “I thought the middle was about animals.” 

“Me, too,” said Carl. “Tell me them back again?” Then Carl explained about the sounds. Anthony paused, looked at the letters, then up at Carl, who could almost see the connections being made behind those dark, startled eyes. 

“Damn,” said Anthony, and Carl experienced the thrill that was successful teaching. “I thought I was just stupid.” He stopped talking, punched Carl in the arm, smiling, wiping his eyes. Carl, punching back and knocking their knees together, was reminded poignantly of the hours his mother and foster mother had spent helping him with his homework. “Damn,” said Anthony again, and Carl gripped his shoulder and shook him. “No one never…” Anthony said, his voice breaking.

“Maybe they had other problems,” Carl offered, squeezing the shoulder.

“No maybe about that,” said Anthony. 

“Thank you, Anthony,” said Carl. Anthony looked up in shocked surprise. “For letting me help you.  It couldn’t have been easy for you. But I never felt as good as I do right now.”

“Me neither,” said Anthony, melting Carl’s heart with a charming smile. Carl smiled back, but his expression froze when Anthony pulled a crumpled envelope out of his pocket. Bruce’s handwriting. Anthony unfolded a letter with a few crudely drawn pictures in the margins.  “It’s our code.” Carl listened.  Anthony and Bruce had shared a bunk for years and Bruce’s sentence ended first, leaving him in the group home until he could be emancipated.

“He wrote when he got here.” Carl shuddered. “Told me to stay inside if I could. I got in a fight, but it was too crowded. They said they didn’t believe I’d started anything because I was always so quiet. Then you showed up. He sent this.”

“Me?”  Carl.  Anthony pointed to a stick figure next to two smaller figures, one with a broken arm and one with a strange loop around its head. 

“Boss,” said Anthony. “We was waiting. Now we can use a book code. Bruce read about it. We just need to pick out a book.”

Carl pulled a tattered copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo_ out of his bag.  “I took this out of the trash at school.”

“That’s why you’re the boss,” said Anthony. Bruce came in with a bag full of hero sandwiches and Anthony stopped talking, concentrating on the food, listening while Bruce described a day out with his uncles. Carl quietly folded up the paper with the letters. If Bruce noticed, he didn’t say anything.

“They got a job for us,” Bruce said.  “All of us.” Anthony nodded. “Pays good.”

“Thanks, Bruce. This is a good sandwich,” said Anthony, his mouth full. “Roast beef. Nice and rare.”

“You’re welcome,” said Bruce, amused.

“What do you got, Carlie?” Anthony wanted to know. Carl slid over an unfinished section of his sandwich.  Anthony looked his question, and Carl nodded. “Italian.  Good,” Anthony said between bites. “Not too much vinegar.”

“I ain’t never heard you talk so much,” Bruce said, eyes flicking to Carl. Anthony looked up, a piece of lettuce sticking out between chapped lips. 

“Been saving it up,” said Anthony, the shred of lettuce flapping before he caught it with the tip of his pink tongue. They all laughed.

Bruce had a small crew, but wanted to expand it. “We got a year before Anthony can be emancipated,” he said a day or so later. “He done good. They had an appeal. I won’t leave him here on his own. Not after what we been through.”

“You won’t have to worry about that,” said Carl.  He and Anthony had grown close very quickly.

Bruce laughed. It was the bitterest sound Carl had ever heard.  He didn’t understand until they went on the job.  Anthony transformed into a tight-faced, terrifying figure, wielding a menace far in excess of his fifteen years on the planet.  Carl nearly stepped back when Anthony set his jaw and flattened a man much bigger and heavier than himself with a single well-placed blow. He saved Carl from getting stabbed and in the end no one lost a life.  Afterward, Anthony met Carl’s eye, then looked away for the rest of the night. Carl waited until Bruce fell asleep, reached out and touched Anthony’s hand.  Anthony looked up, and Carl caught a glimpse of feral terror behind those dark eyes, the fear that this part of him would cost him Carl’s friendship.  

“You have to teach me now,” said Carl, gripping Anthony’s hand.  Anthony nodded, knowing that Carl could never fully learn the savage wildness of heart that he would need to be the muscle, but that they would all have to be able to defend themselves.  In his own bed, Bruce smiled again.

“Keep it down, you two,” is what he said, but in that instant they all knew that they had become brothers.

 


	5. Why you're the boss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-canon fluff and angst all rolled into one. Anthony and Carl talk abut Bruce's death.
> 
>  
> 
> “Whatever you like,” Carl said, leaning up on one arm, swallowing the pills and washing them down with warm Perrier. 
> 
> “Then whatever you like,” said Anthony, pulling Carl’s t-shirt up over his head.
> 
> “Pants, too,” Carl said, a little too eagerly. Anthony chuckled.

The loss of Bruce had not fully registered with Carl until he saw Anthony again. “Carl? Hey. You’re shaking like a leaf.” Carl pressed his face against Anthony’s shoulder. Anthony rubbed Carl’s back, making a soothing noise, cupped the back of his head with the other hand. “Carlie? Does something hurt?”

“You died,” Carl choked out. Anthony made a crooning noise and squeezed harder, his own body vibrating with grief. “I couldn't save you. And then they got Bruce.”

“Oh, Carlie. I’m sorry,” Anthony whispered. “I’m sorry.” They held each other tightly, breaths heaving out of their chests.

“Don’t,” Carl whispered. “It was my fault. I should have saved you.” 

“Sorry,” Anthony said again, pressing his lips against Carl’s head. “I mean, yes, boss.” Carl laughed.

“Help me get these pajamas off?” Carl asked.  “I want…” He paused, looked up. “I’m not sure I can yet… but.”  Anthony’s face softened.   

“More painkillers first,” Anthony said, sitting up and shaking pills from a bottle.

“Whatever you like,” Carl said, leaning up on one arm, swallowing the pills and washing them down with warm Perrier. 

“Then whatever you like,” said Anthony, pulling Carl’s t-shirt up over his head.

“Pants, too,” Carl said, a little too eagerly.  Anthony chuckled. 

“Pants, too,” Anthony agreed. They settled back, Carl’s head on Anthony’s shoulder.  “I’ll rub your back until you go to sleep,” Anthony said.

“No kissing?” Carl asked.

Anthony’s breath huffed out in half a laugh. “Maybe later,” he said, kissing the top of Carl’s head, cupping the back of his neck in a hand.

“Now?” Carl asked.  “It’s later now. Technically.”

“That’s why you’re the boss,” Anthony said.

“Maybe you need to start sharing that responsibility,” Carl said, running a hand up and over Anthony’s chest.

“You may not like it,” Anthony said.  “ ** _I_** think you should go to sleep.”  Carl ran his hand lower and Anthony groaned, his eyes closing as those fingers traced the shaft of his penis. “Not start what you can’t finish.”

“So that’s why I’m the boss?” Carl asked.

“That’s why you’re the boss,” agreed Anthony, bending down to kiss him. Then he lifted his head and looked into Carl’s eyes.  “Close your eyes and rest now, boss.”  And Carl did as Anthony asked.


	6. At first

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-canon. Carl argues with Anthony and Bruce over being the boss.
> 
>  
> 
> “My uncle remembered the name. Elias,” said Bruce. “They were trying to get us to clean up the mess.” Carl went cold. “It was…you don’t do what he done. He tried to keep it quiet, but people knew who she was. You’ve got a claim. You could take over. There’s a legitimate grandson, but he’s a stupid piece of work.”
> 
> Posted for the fan_flashowrks "shoulder" challenge

Carl had resisted the idea of being the boss at first. “I don't like it.  Sending people out to do dangerous things while staying safe myself. How could anyone trust me? How will I know what to do?” He looked at Anthony. “How do I protect you? Make sure you’re safe?”

“That’s why it should be you,” Anthony said around a mouthful of whatever he was eating.  In those days, just after they left the halfway house and were beginning to make money, it seemed like Anthony was always eating.  He grew an inch the first month out. “You even thinking that way. I can handle myself.”

“He’s right,” said Bruce. Anthony was made of solid muscle.  He’d kept quiet and no one noticed how much he could lift, how many pushups he could do. “You need the crew to trust you. Love you, if you can swing it, but people like you. It’s the most important thing.”

As it turned out, Bruce understood this from experience. He had been born into a crew, and wound up, first in juvie and then in the group home because he had taken the rap for one of his uncles. Someone too old to be treated as a child. Afterward, the uncle agreed to fund Bruce in college, set him up with a business selling soft stuff, like mushrooms and marijuana, until “just say no” made that too dangerous.  By the time Bruce graduated college and set up his first accountant’s business, two of the uncles would join his father in the grave, cementing his desire to become a money launderer.

Carl studied and planned and studied. One day, while Anthony was playing basketball with some of the other guys, Bruce took Carl aside. “You’re Gianni Moretti’s bastard,” he said. Carl’s face went hard and angry. “Don’t give me that look. It’s not like she would have had a choice. Or you.”

“He did,” said Carl.  Bruce shrugged, unable to argue that point. “Did he do it?  Have it done?”

“She went to him, looking for money to send you to a better school. You did good on a test.” Carl closed his eyes, suppressing an agony of grief. “She wanted you to be a doctor or something.  He said no and she went to his father. They couldn’t have that. Next week she was dead.”

“How did you find that out?” Carl had known his mother was looking for his father.  And he’d found her, stabbed to death in their kitchen, been shunted into the foster care system.

“My uncle remembered the name. Elias,” said Bruce.  “They were trying to get us to clean up the mess.” Carl went cold. “It was…you don’t do what he done. He tried to keep it quiet, but people knew who she was. You’ve got a claim. You could take over.  There’s a legitimate grandson, but he’s a stupid piece of work.”

“If he wanted me, I wouldn’t be here,” said Carl, pressing shaking hands against his thighs.  He had a father.  A living father. He pressed down the hope that there was a place for him. A family. Love.  He knew, even then, that the hope was foolish, but still he felt it.    

“You could reunite the Five Families,” said Bruce casually.

Carl snorted. “You watch too many movies. Were they ever even united? And why would I want to do that?” Carl asked. “What’s the goal? How does that help anyone?" 

“Vengeance,” said Bruce. “Your birthright.”

“Right,” Carl said, hearing the seriousness underneath the joking tone, but he wasn’t ready to be serious, not about that. “Maybe I should walk around with an orange over my teeth. That would look impressive.”

Bruce chuckled. “Think about it…at the right time, it will help for people to have something to say.  We can say that and keep to the shadows.  Be our own men.”  Carl nodded, understanding.  They could have a good life, for a while, until someone took them out.

“I got something else to say to you,” Bruce said.  Carl met his eye. “I love Anthony like a brother.” Carl nodded. “He don’t trust easy, not since he went to juvie, but he trusts you. I ain’t never seen him take to someone like this.” Carl nodded again. “Not even me. You look after him, treat him right, and I will support you to the ends of the earth.” 

Carl did not know exactly what Bruce meant, but he agreed without thinking. “Of course,” said Carl. “What about you?”

Bruce grinned. “I’m the strong shoulder behind the scenes.  I’ll be looking after the both of you. We got a lot of money to earn if we want to reunite the five families.”    

“I’ll get the oranges.”  Then Carl paused.  “What made you take up with a couple of goombahs like us?”

Bruce flushed.  “My granpa.  He thought we needed to get to know youse guys.  From the inside.  They put Anthony in my room… and he saw an opportunity.”

“Anthony?” Carl asked.

“You gotta ask him.  I ain’t getting into it.”

 


	7. Talking to the Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carl and Anthony speak with the Machine, then go on the run.... back to their own past.
> 
> Post-canon adventure. Takes place in parallel with the Washington DC adventure.
> 
>  
> 
> “I love you, too, boss,” said Anthony, voice husky with emotion.
> 
> Why do you call him boss? 
> 
> “Because we agreed,” Anthony said. “In front of people.…”
> 
> "Thank you for thinking that I am a person."

Time was short.  Even though Carl was still weak and shaking, they would have to move on. The Machine had set up an elaborate series of houses where they could talk without being hunted down by Samaritan. Logan explained when Carl woke from his nap. “It will be dangerous, but we can't wait any longer. You’ve had nearly two days to recover.”

“You said he’d been out… to protect his brain,” Anthony said.

“He was out, but mostly just for the trip,” Logan admitted. “We medicated him to keep his brain from swelling…”

“Are you OK?” Anthony asked Carl. “Is he gonna be okay?” Logan’s mouth flapped, and Carl recognized that Anthony had kept up his bravest face through many long months of illness and recovery.

“It’s not a matter of OK, is it?” Carl asked Logan.

“No,” Logan agreed.  “I’m sorry, but there’s no time. You’ll spend an hour answering questions and then we’ll have to move you.  I don’t know what will happen. Anthony?  Is there anything you want to pack?”

“No,” said Carl.  “I need Anthony with me if I’m going to do this.  I need him by my side.”

“Ok. Then I’ll pack for you,” Logan said. “I have to go for this part, but when you’re done, go to the end of the driveway and you’ll get instructions.”

“Do you need anything?” Carl asked.

“Just my guns and you,” said Anthony.  “Not in that order, neither.” 

Logan bid them goodbye, hugging Anthony and shaking Carl's hand.

 

****

Anthony strapped on guns and knives. Carl saw the mixture of satisfaction and sadness he felt at that accustomed weight.  “I got you a holster, too,” Anthony said. “A couple good guns.”

“Really?” Carl asked.  “How?”

“I asked,” Anthony said. “It seemed more important than the lobster rolls.”  Carl smiled.

“You melt my heart, Bello,” he said.

The Machine wanted Carl to talk, so he talked, at length, about whatever it asked.  When the Machine asked about Anthony, Carl took Anthony’s hand. “Anthony is the first and only love of my life,” Carl said, kissing Anthony’s hand. “My best friend. The friend of my boyhood, my first kiss. My savior and healer and companion. I can never thank you enough for saving him.” 

“I love you, too, boss,” said Anthony, voice husky with emotion.

 _Why do you call him boss?_  

“Because we agreed,” Anthony said. “In front of people.…”

_Thank you for thinking that I am a person._

“We had to do right by his ma.  Help the neighborhood. It came at a cost. We had an organization.  He had to be the boss.”

_Loyalty? Cost? Explain._

“Yes,” said Carl.  “everything came at a cost. We were not civilized men.  We were of an older kind. Brutal and vengeful. Motivated by honor and duty. Warriors.” 

_But what is right? Which is perpetrator? Which is victim?_

“Perhaps these are not the right questions,” said Carl. “We thought only of honor and responsibility. A code. Something more complicated than wrong or right.”

_Honor makes right wrong and wrong right?_

“Sometimes. There is no absolute good or absolute bad,” Carl said.  “I’m sure Harold believes there is, but he isn’t correct. We believe there is good and evil, but that isn't a thing for people.  It’s a thing for gods and monsters. Pure beings.  We are not pure." 

Anthony nodded. “All we can do is our best,” he said. “Be as good as we can. Protect the ones closest to us. What kind of men would we be otherwise?”

_Do your best? Protect those closest to you?_

“Yes,” said Carl. “Start close to you. That’s all anyone can do. Any of us. Protect those who are closest to us first.”

_No pure good? Or evil?_

“Not for people. You may be pure, though,” Anthony said.  “If all you do is watch over all of us and protect us.” Carl squeezed his hand.

_But I have done wrong. I tried to kill Admin. Many times._

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. Everyone makes some mistakes,” said Anthony. “Besides, he’s kind of annoying.”

“Bello,” Carl said. “No wonder I love you so much.”

 _Humans are mixed. And Samaritan may be pure.  This is interesting.  Good is not equal to evil_

“No,” said Carl, “Good is not equal to evil.”

“How are our crew?” Anthony asked.  “Are they all right? And Bruce’s kids?”

“You shame me,” Carl said to Anthony.

 _You must go now.  Hurry. You are in danger._  

 

****

Anthony shouldered a backpack and helped Carl venture past the mailboxes at the end of a wooded lane. A black car pulled up, towing a battered SUV.  Anthony just had time to step in front of Carl when a man in a black suit handed them an envelope labelled “Thornhill.”  Inside were keys, money, IDs, and a map. The man unhooked the SUV, hopped back into the car and drove back in the direction he had come in. 

They followed circuitous directions that led them to another house, where Anthony medicated Carl and watched over him while he slept. The next day, they spoke to the Machine for hours.  They spent that night in a small apartment over a stable, and Carl, seeing Anthony’s exhaustion, insisted that they take it in turns to sleep while the other watched.

The next stop was an abandoned veterinary clinic. A nervous young medical student followed directions to scan Carl’s brain and dispensed the needed medications. Anthony packed Carl into a new car and drove all night. In the morning, they ate breakfast in a hotel and the clerk’s phone received a text as they passed.  The woman passed them a grey envelope labelled “Thornhill.” 

_Just a little further. You must hurry._

They followed a new set of directions and crossed the border into Canada.  After two days at rest in one of the outbuildings of a pretty hotel by a lake, they came to a shabby, but pleasant, flat in the neighborhood near a university.  As they locked the door behind them, Carl’s eyes filled with tears. When they had been young men on the run, they lived in various tiny nearby flats over a few years.

Carl took Anthony’s hand. “Anthony, do you remember our first place together?”

Anthony squeezed his fingers.  “How could I forget?”

“You look exhausted,” Carl said. Anthony had done most of the driving, insisting that Carl rest.

“So do you,” Anthony said. Carl staggered slightly, and Anthony put an arm around him.  “Let’s find out who we are and get some sleep.”

They tore open another envelope labelled “Thornhill.” Carl would be a professor on sabbatical, keeping office hours at the local university, and Anthony would run the book shop.  Carl gasped. 

“Book shop?”  Carl asked.   “Is this building connected to a book shop?”

Anthony looked his answer, handed Carl some papers. The deeds showed that Anthony owned the buildings—had owned them for decades under his old name, the one he’d given up as a boy in juvie.  

“I don’t understand,” Carl said. “This isn’t just any book shop. It’s the old man’s.  How did you…?”

“It’s a long story,” said Anthony.

“I didn’t think we had any more secrets,” said Carl, more puzzled than angry.

“If I’d a known about this, I would have told you,” Anthony replied.

Carl looked up, startled.  “I know, bello.  I know,” he said.  “I just… I forgot how it was at first. How lost we were. How much we held back to protect each other.”

Anthony nodded.  “We were young,” he said.


	8. Exquisite felicity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carl wanders into a bookstore and finds an unlikely connection with the past
> 
> Pre-canon schmoop and angst.
> 
>  
> 
> Anthony gave another of his thoughtful pauses. “You think we might have to do that? Go apart to be stronger warriors?”
> 
> Carl’s heart froze in his chest. “No,” he said, voice catching, tears rising in his eyes. “No.”
> 
> Anthony smoothed Carl’s hair and kissed the back of his neck. “This ain’t to be mean, Carlie, but you just done it.” Carl huddled miserably, cradling his torn palms against his chest, and Anthony wrapped an arm around Carl to cuddle him closer. “I understand what you done. I ain’t mad. You had a good reason.”
> 
> “It was a mistake,” Carl whispered, mouth against Anthony’s arm. “I’m sorry, Anthony. I was wrong.”

****

Carl remembered the first time he entered the book shop, far from New York, his hands still bandaged and oozing blood. Carl had drifted all that day—the first day Anthony had left him alone and gone off looking for work—seeking some balm to help him heal from wounds to his heart and soul that were so deep he couldn’t find their beginning or ending.  A grizzled old man sat behind an ancient mechanical cash register, surrounded by piles of books.  Dust floated, catching the light. Books had always drawn Carl, and the store owner seemed inclined to be left alone. Yet something in the man’s mildly appraising gaze also drew Carl in. 

“You’re not from around here,” the man greeted him in a rusty New York accent. Carl managed not to recoil, registered that he was wearing a ratty sweatshirt with the name of a New York college. 

“No, sir,” said Carl as blandly as possible. 

As the months went on, they would talk and get to know each other, and Carl would begin to wonder how the man had wandered so far from the city to fetch up in that unlikely place, but that first day, Carl only knew that he was torn and damaged. Not just his hands, but his very soul. His father had looked him in the face, welcomed him, and ordered his death.  It was the most incredible betrayal Carl had ever even heard of. Even in his stunned and wounded state, though, he had walked by on the cross street and checked for exits before entering the frusty bookshop.    

“Looking for anything particular?” the man asked. 

“No, sir,” said Carl, “Just looking.”

“English books are in the back room,” said the man. Carl hesitated, with the instinct of a gangster who never went into a space he couldn’t get out of, and the man pointed. “You can’t see it from where you’re standing.” Carl moved deliberately, not looking back over his shoulder, taking the long way around, through shelves of books, past fading hand-lettered labels on index cards, noting where the windows were and whether they were locked.  He came back with a copy of _Persuasion,_ missing one of its back covers. 

“Return of the victorious warrior,” said the man. “Bringing back the spoils of war and choosing to take his pleasures from among the captive women.”

“I thought it was a romance,” said Carl.  “Rediscovering love when all hope was lost.” 

“From one perspective,” said the man. “That’s fifty cents.” Carl reached into a pocket—one where he was not hiding a gun or a knife—and set a dollar on the counter.  The man, handing back quarters, caught sight of Carl’s palm where Anthony had bound it with gauze and tape. “You run into a little trouble there?”

Carl kept his face smooth. “Cut myself shaving,” he said.  The man’s eyebrows popped up.

“In a bit of a rush, were you?”  Carl shrugged. “Be careful with that, then,” said the man.

“Yes, sir,” said Carl. “I will.”

“Come back when you’ve finished.  I’d like to hear what you think.”

“Thank you,” said Carl.

 

**** 

It would be Anthony who realized first who the man was and why he had taken to Carl so readily.  Anthony, who would instantly recognize the old man as Carl’s great uncle and his own grandfather’s old boss.  A Moretti long thought dead, running the family from the shadows until his nephew betrayed him. An intelligent, bookish man who had provided a quiet, peaceful retirement for himself.  An unassuming alter ego.

And a great desire for revenge. 

Over the next few years, he would teach Carl (and Anthony) many things, although at first he only handed over books that he was about to throw away.  Carefully chosen books, because he saw that Carl had a certain type of destiny. Books of fury and battle, fate and vengeance.  And, led by the words of this deeply violent man, Carl saw in Jane Austen the working of fate and the internecine battles of the domestic.  Saw even happy families as possible sites of war and conquest.  

But that night, Carl knew nothing of what would come. So, after a supper of bread and fruit and cheese and wine and cold meats that he and Anthony had brought home from their ramblings, Carl read aloud of a young woman, past her prime, crippled in heart by a lost love, and finding herself at dinner watching him woo another.  Anthony rested his head in Carl’s lap while he listened, one hand on his chest. Bruce and Carl both liked to explain their books, reading bits and pieces as they went, and Anthony enjoyed listening.

“You think he’d a been a warrior if they’d been together?” Anthony asked.” Or he done good at the war because they was apart?”

“Who?” Carl asked, startled at the question. Often, Anthony listened with only half an ear, turning over his own thoughts in his head.

“Anne and the captain?  Would he a’ been weaker? Trying to protect her, you think?”

“I don’t know,” said Carl. “I don't think they ever thought about it. I didn’t.”

“Then why do they have all that in about his sister? Going to sea and all?” Anthony sat up in a single movement, took the book to find the page. Carl, as often happened when Anthony surprised or impressed him, felt his heart twist.

“I don’t know,” said Carl.  “I was thinking about the exquisite felicity part. How it was only a brief period, before heartbreak.”

“What’s that?” Anthony asked, flipping the pages and sounding out a word here and there.

“Beautiful, perfect happiness,” said Carl.

“I got that right now, anyways,” said Anthony, patting Carl’s thigh and turning another page.  Carl’s heart swelled as Anthony sounded out “repeatedly,” moving a finger carefully below the word as Carl had taught him.

“Me, too, Anthony,” said Carl putting an arm around Anthony and resting a head on his shoulder. “You tired?”

“Nah,” said Anthony, kissing the nearest part of Carl he could reach, which happened to be an ear. “But I could go to bed with you if that’s what you mean.”

“It wasn’t,” said Carl, “But I could go to bed, too. If you wanted.”

Anthony kissed Carl again. “That would give me exquisite felicity, Carlie.”

 

****

Afterward, they lay curled together like spoons. “Carlie?”

“Yeah?”

“I…” Anthony paused, as if considering whether he should continue.  Carl patted his thigh, wincing as his palm flexed. “I wonder if they come back together.”

“I think they might,” said Carl. “I haven’t finished it yet, but it’s that kind of book." 

Anthony gave another of his thoughtful pauses. “You think we might have to do that?  Go apart to be stronger warriors?”

Carl’s heart froze in his chest. “No,” he said, voice catching, tears rising in his eyes.  “No.”

Anthony smoothed Carl’s hair and kissed the back of his neck.  “This ain’t to be mean, Carlie, but you just done it.”  Carl huddled miserably, cradling his torn palms against his chest, and Anthony wrapped an arm around Carl to cuddle him closer.  “I understand what you done. I ain’t mad. You had a good reason.”

“It was a mistake,” Carl whispered, mouth against Anthony’s arm.  “I’m sorry, Anthony. I was wrong.”

“No, Carlie,” Anthony said, kissing Carl’s neck again.  “You done what you had to do.  I respect that.  And we was fighting it. This feeling between us.  It ain’t easy being some kind of queer. Not men like us.”

“We ain’t queers,” Carl said sullenly.  Anthony huffed out a laugh.

“There’s all kinds of queers,” said Anthony, gently, nipping Carl’s shoulder.  He squeezed Carl against him. “You’re my kind, Carlie.”

“You’re my kind, too,” said Carl.

“Let’s make more of that exquisite felicity,” Anthony said.

“You’re making it right now,” said Carl.  “Just by being here. You’ve been making it for years now, Anthony.”

Anthony felt his face bend into a glowing smile and he jostled Carl and kissed his head.  “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Carl, smiling in response.   

“So not just a brief period?”

“No, I guess not,” said Carl, feeling a sudden buoyancy of spirit.  He turned his face and Anthony kissed him. “Let’s not rush this time?”

“We never rushed as far as I know,” grinned Anthony.  “But I could go slower if you want.”

“Oh, I want,” said Carl, eyes filling with tears again. Anthony’s face grew serious and Carl tried to shield the rawness of his wounds from the concern in those dark, thoughtful eyes.

“You okay, Carlie?”  Anthony cupped Carl’s cheek and kissed his forehead and smoothed his eyebrows then his hair.  Carl nodded.  “So how slow?”

Carl sighed in relief. “Let’s figure that out together,” he said.

“So how about I hold you a while more?”  Anthony asked.  “I like feeling you next to me.”

“All right,” said Carl, but he reached up and kissed Anthony hungrily.  They made love eagerly, and Carl fell asleep almost instantly, his face nestled under Anthony’s chin.  Anthony lay awake, holding his friend until he thought Carl was sound asleep, then settled that injured soul among their pillows and watched his troubled face in the moonlight.  Carl’s eyes flicked open at the movement, but as soon as he caught sight of Anthony, his eyelids closed and a half smile played across his face. 

 

****

 


	9. Above the bookstore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-canon. Carl and Anthony learn what to avoid as they begin a new life together in their old stomping grounds.

Carl and Anthony had been in the bookstore below many,many times, but this was their first visit to the apartment upstairs.  The Machine had left them instructions, in a grey envelope labelled "Thornhill."  They memorized a list of things to avoid, including cameras, Italian import stores, and pawn shops. Neither of them was tempted to complain, even though their favorite wines were on the list.  A slip of pink paper fell out from between the larger sheets.

_Manage well, Carlie. Use your resources wisely. Think and plan for I may die._

“That seems dire,” Carl said.  He turned the sheet and saw a tiny map.  Three bookshops, scattered across the city.  

_Yours._

“We still got…”  Anthony started. Carl cleared his throat and nodded. Bruce had set up numbered accounts around the world.  No one, not even the Machine, knew about all of them. “It’s a Farraday cage,” Anthony said.  “This apartment. I checked.”

“You always surprise me, bello,” said Carl.  Anthony smiled and sank into a battered, comfortable-looking chair, then stood found a handgun under one of the cushions.  Or what looked like a handgun.

"It's plastic," said Anthony.

"It was the old man's," said Carl.  "He kept it for show."

After that, every week or so, Carl or Anthony would receive an envelope from Thornhill, usually with a request for information.  Strange things.  Delivered in a strange code _._

They discovered the questions, hidden in the books.  A picture of the basement where they had hidden when Carter broke Carl out of prisoner transfer. Vacuum tubes like the one Carl had used to lure Dominic out. The brackish wine Zambrone, Jr. liked with a filet.  Yogorov drinking a coffee.  The old man with Gianni Moretti as a young boy.

The weeks flowed by easily. Carl enjoyed conversations with his colleagues and began to write a book.  He taped a piece of paper over the camera on his laptop and kept it unplugged in a drawer when he wasn’t using it.  

On their off days, Anthony and Carl took long walks and cooked for each other.  In the evenings, they listened to live music in tiny cafes or went to shows. Things they had not done as young men.

The building proved to be much more than they at first suspected. 

They had inherited vast piles of disintegrating books and slowly worked out the best means of using them. Anthony began cutting apart books and selling the pictures and maps to frame shops when he found a stack of old invoices. The old shop owner had done a booming internet business with various reproducers of art and other users of old paper, but Carl and Anthony both distrusted computers, only using one when they needed to communicate with the Machine. They worked with students from the University, who thought their computer illiteracy was cute.  One of the students started to build books with secret hiding places, which sold amazingly well. Soon Anthony, who always had had a way with a crew, had a small group of part-time workers. 

“Anthony,” Carl said one evening over a roast chicken.  “Do you remember where Zambrone stashed those guns?  The big ones?”  Anthony nodded, but Carl noticed how those broad shoulders stiffened. 

“Is this why they saved us?” Anthony asked. “I’m afraid if we relax, it will send us back.”

Carl finished chewing and wiped his mouth. “How much did she ask you before they brought me?” 

Anthony shrugged. “Not much.  Where the guys bought their suits.  What kind of seat covers in the car. What kind of wine you liked. Stupid things.”

Carl considered this. “She can only see where the cameras are. She needs to know what we knew.  Where things are hidden that they can use. We knew that. And once she put us together, she knew you were the key. That you and I are each only half of Carl Elias.” 

“Let’s try fitting the halves together,” Anthony said.  Carl’s eyes went dark.  He stood and took Anthony’s hand and led him into their bedroom.

****

Afterward, Anthony brought Carl down to the basement. “I found this. The building was deeded the whole time,” Anthony said, showing Carl a metal box.  “Not by the Machine.  Or by the old man, like we thought at first.”   Carl nodded. Anthony unfolded a sheet of paper.  “I ain’t never thought, but my grandpa had bought this place when I was a baby.”

“That’s not the same as your last name,” Carl said, slowly.

“I thought they was a just friends of my ma’s,” Anthony said.  “I dunno why, but they done this when I was a baby…”

“What does the letter say?”  They bent their heads over the stained paper, learned that Anthony was their grandson, but his mother had been married to someone else.  She hadn’t thought he’d get out of prison.  He’d killed Anthony’s real father.  “My god, Anthony.”

“My grandpa tried to tell me,” Anthony said.  “He told me to come up here, but I thought it was just the money he stashed.”

“He hid Don Moretti?”

Anthony shrugged. “It was his boss. I'd a done it for you.”

“Is that all?” Carl wanted to know.

“And there were keys. I found some stuff.  Guns. Cigarettes. Liquor. Cash. Another apartment. This place used to be a stash house. And there’s part of a tunnel.” 

Carl followed Anthony through the rooms to a hidden staircase. “Where does it go?”

“It’s blocked off a little way down, but it will end in the train tunnel.”

“We should start,” Carl said thoughtfully. “Get rid of this stuff quietly.” Anthony nodded. “You think any of our old stashes are still around?”  Anthony tilted his head.  “You kept them up?”

“Seemed like a good idea,” Anthony said. “They got rid of those old lockers in the train station. But I kept the safe deposit boxes paid up… and that basement.”

“It’s been thirty years,” Carl said, bewildered.

“Wait and hope,” Anthony said. Carl’s eyes filled with tears and Anthony cleared his throat.

“I always underestimated you, how much I depended on your thoughtfulness, my bello. I think that’s what got me killed, not realizing everything you did for me.  I didn’t even know what to check, without you there.”

Anthony let the compliments pass.  And he was unprepared to say he was unhappy that Carl had been brought back to him, but he worried about their crew.  Instead Anthony said, “I missed it, all that time.  How we was. Like we are now.”

“Me, too, Anthony,” said Carl, clearing his own throat.

“Like in that book… we had exquisite felicity.”  Carl squeezed Anthony’s hand.  “I know we had to get hard, but I never thought we’d be so closed off with each other.” 

“Let’s go back upstairs. I want to kiss you a while.”

Anthony’s breath huffed out and he gave Carl a slow smile.  “Anywhere particular?”

“Everywhere,” said Carl. 

“You never finish,” Anthony said.

“We can still try,” said Carl.

 

“I won’t say no,” said Anthony.


	10. Won't say no

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-canon.
> 
> Carl fixes up the flat while Anthony is out working. Anthony tells Carl how he met Bruce.
> 
> Set against Chapter 1 of "Marking it Down to Learning" and events in "The Scar."

****

As young men together, they had tried many times, while living a charmed life they both knew would never last. One morning, about two weeks after they had run away from Moretti, Anthony heard Carl start the bath water in their tiny flat and went to him, bare-chested in his pajama bottoms.  They had nearly nothing, just the detritus of student life from a used car Bruce had given them, and a few things, mostly pillows and blankets and towels, that Anthony had insisted they buy. 

Carl, unbuttoning the matching pajama shirt he’d put on over his boxer shorts, smiled at his friend. “Hey Anthony.”

Anthony moved forward and pressed his lips against Carl’s. “Let me help you with that?” Carl opened his mouth, then Anthony tilted his head. 

Carl flushed. “I won’t say no,” he said. Anthony loosed Carl’s buttons, kissing the exposed skin beneath, but when he kissed each of Carl’s palms, which had finally started to heal instead of opening back up every day, Carl’s mouth fell open and he began to weep. Anthony’s eyes went wide. Carl had never cried in front of him.

“Hey, Carlie,” Anthony gathered Carl into his arms, and cupped the back of his head in one hand. “Sorry.  I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Carl rested against his friend while Anthony rubbed his back and kissed his hair. “No. I am. I didn’t mean to wake you.”  He’d been sneaking off into the shower whenever he felt like crying, hoping Anthony hadn’t noticed.

“It’s… I wanted to kiss you all over,” said Anthony softly into Carl’s ear, and they both went suddenly hard. Anthony had started the night before, but Carl had become too eager to let him finish.

“Oh,” said Carl. “I… don’t think I can’t wait that long.”

“That’s okay,” said Anthony.  Afterward, he ate eggs and ham and toast that Carl cooked for him, then took a bag of sandwiches and fruit to a job moving crates.  They didn’t have a coffee maker, so they drank hot chocolate.

 

****

When Anthony returned from his work on the dock—he wouldn’t let Carl accompany him until his hands were completely healed—the conversation turned. Carl had spent much of the day making their home more pleasant.  Faded curtains hung at the windows above a battered daybed left behind by the former renters.  The tiny table was set with beautiful, if mismatched, silverware and glasses of water.  The smells of cooking filled the house.  Anthony came in, calling to Carl that he was home, then stopped and dropped his work gloves on a chair.

“I made dinner,” Carl said. Anthony’s face went still and unreadable. He went to the table first, lifted a heavy fork and set it down, then touched the curtains. Carl hovered in the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a towel, as if afraid Anthony would scold him for spending so much money.  He turned and their eyes met. Carl stood, transfixed, as Anthony moved forward.

“I hoped you’d like it,” Carl said.  Anthony ran his hands up and down Carl’s back, pulled their hips together and kissed his forehead, each of his eyelids and his lips, one hand planted at the small of Carl’s back and the other at the back of his head.  Anthony kissed Carl deeply, then, mouth firm yet gentle, responding naturally as Carl moved. “You hungry?” Carl asked when they drew back for breath.  Anthony nodded, mouth still slightly open, and pressed their foreheads together. Carl smiled, pushed one of Anthony’s hips.  “Go wash up?”  Anthony kissed Carl one more time then turned and went into the bathroom, pulling off his sweaty shirt.

“Carl?” Anthony’s voice sounded uncertain, and Carl stepped nearer to the bedroom, wiping his hands on the towel he’d tucked into his waistband.

“Yeah?” Carl asked. Laid out on the bed was a silk v-neck sweater in deep blue and Anthony’s one clean pair of jeans.  “It’s only second hand. I had to sew up a rip in it.” Anthony nodded and Carl went back to the kitchen.  When Anthony emerged, looking more handsome than Carl had ever seen him, dinner was on the table.  Anthony gave a little swagger as he moved to sit down, and Carl vowed to make his friend feel that way as often as he possibly could. They were both hungry and didn’t say much as they worked their way through salad and pasta and meatballs and bread, but Anthony touched the gilded edges of his plate, then reached out and held Carl’s hand while he ate. When they finished, Anthony took the plates into the kitchen and washed them while Carl packed leftovers into the refrigerator in foil. He went back to the table where Carl was blowing out candles, and set a hand at Carl’s back.  “You want coffee?  I found an old coffee press at a flea market and cleaned it up.”  Anthony shook his head, kissed Carl on the side of the head. Carl followed where Anthony’s palm guided.

“You okay?” Carl asked when they came to the bedroom.  Normally, they’d be jostling each other playfully and giggling as they undressed. But Anthony rested his forehead on Carl’s shoulder, and Carl slipped an arm around his waist and rubbed his neck with the opposite hand.  Anthony circled Carl in an arm and squeezed him close. “You didn’t eat very much.” Carl pressed his lips against the side of Anthony’s head.

“No one never was so good to me,” Anthony said, his voice catching. 

“You’ve been working so hard,” said Carl, rubbing Anthony’s blistered palm, kissing him again. “And sharing all your money. I just wanted to make everything nice for you.” 

“You done real good, Carlie,” said Anthony.  “I never… it all came out real nice.”

“I’d like to do something else for you,” Carl said. Anthony raised his head, and Carl smoothed his hair.  “I don’t know that look,” Carl said.

“We …maybe some kissing,” said Anthony shyly. Carl’s heart melted. 

“I’d like that,” said Carl. “Very much.”

Anthony carefully pulled off and folded his new shirt and set it on the dresser. They lay on the bed and kissed for half an hour. “I do like this,” Carl said. “You’re a wonderful kisser, Anthony.” Then Anthony tilted his head and tucked his fingers into Carl’s waistband. Carl smiled. “Whatever you want,” said Carl. They undressed each other slowly, Anthony pulling the covers over them. He took Carl in his arms and cleared his throat.

“Remember that time I got sick?”

“Yeah,” Carl said.

“I wanted to do you, too,” said Anthony, and Carl flushed pinkly. It had been the first time Carl touched his friend intimately, when Anthony was still weak from illness. They’d never talked about that night again, treating the memory as just another part of Anthony’s bout of the flu. “It seemed fair.”

“It was my pleasure,” said Carl, stroking Anthony’s face, savoring the feeling of his two-day beard against his fingertips. “More than I ever said.” Anthony gave that inscrutable look again and Carl smiled. “I meant it when I said whatever you want, Bello,” he said. Carl moved to kiss Anthony, but Anthony shook his head slightly.  He rested on his side and took Carl in hand, then flicked his eyes.  Carl followed suit, matching Anthony’s motions while gazing into his eyes.  They climaxed together and Carl felt tears streaming down his face.

“Carlie,” Anthony murmured, kissing the tears away. “I got you now.” 

They rested a few moments.  “I got a cake,” Carl said. Anthony chuckled.

“You’re all the dessert I need,” he said.

 

**** 

That night Carl woke gasping and covered in sweat from a dream where Moretti’s crew got him, leaving Anthony all alone. “Carlie?” Anthony’s groggy voice triggered something in Carl, and he felt his body almost convulse with grief, for his mother, for the failed and desperate hope that his father did love him, for Anthony’s terrifying childhood. Anthony’s arms were around him in an instant, and Carl sobbed helplessly against Anthony’s chest. “I got you Carlie. You’re safe for now,” Anthony said finally, and Carl quieted. “You okay?” Carl couldn’t speak, so Anthony rubbed his back. “Let’s have a shower,” Anthony suggested when Carl stopped hiccupping.  Carl let Anthony help him into the bathroom, wipe his face, then hold him under the warm water. 

They drifted back toward the front room, where the former renters had set up a daybed. Anthony moved the few steps into the tiny nook of a kitchen and Carl followed, helped him make hot chocolate and then they settled on the daybed in pajama bottoms (Anthony) or boxer shorts (Carl) and sipped their drinks and watched the night sky.

“I don’t think this is what you had in mind when we made our plans,” said Carl. “Looking after me like this. I’m sorry.”

Anthony moved closer and tucked an arm around his friend. “You done it for me when I needed you,” he said, and Carl started crying again.  Anthony set their drinks on the windowsill and held Carl against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Carl said.

“You done this for me, too,” Anthony said.

“I don’t know why I’m so… raw,” Carl said, moving to sit up. “I knew what kind of man he was.” He sipped his cocoa. 

Anthony drank deeply. “I think…” He paused. Carl pressed his hand.  “Maybe it’s this thing between us. I feel… real soft now. Like I never got no clothes on or something.  I feel mad, too, for all the things what happened to me. But no one never went after me like Moretti come after you,” said Anthony.  “He could have paid your mom off.  Protected you. But he had her killed and tried to get rid of you. They didn't put you in with Bruce by mistake.  He had a real reputation.” It had been months before Carl realized how shocking it had been that Bruce took to him.

“How did you two become friends?” Carl asked.  He would ask anyone their story, but he’d been very respectful of Anthony and Bruce’s privacy. Besides, Anthony rarely spoke at length, and Carl didn’t want him to feel pressured.

“In the hospital,” said Anthony. “When they… took me, I was cut up real bad.  My face, and my arm was broke, bones comin’ all out and my ribs was busted up, too. I was too scared to say nothing. Woke up tied to the bed. And Bruce was there.” Carl ran his fingers over a faint scar on Anthony’s arm. “He was real beat up, jaw wired shut and all. I never seen anyone looked so scary. But he said…” Anthony chuckled at the memory. “He said ‘I like you, kid. That’s gotta hurt bad, but you been nice and quiet.’ They brang some food in.  My…” Anthony paused.

“It’s all right Anthony,” said Carl. “You don’t have to say anything you don’t want.”

Anthony looked down. “My dad spent all the grocery money, and I…started crying ‘cause I was so hungry. That’s what they was fighting about…that night.” Carl rubbed Anthony’s neck. 

“I’m sorry, Anthony,” said Carl.

Anthony cleared his throat. “Bruce said I could have his.  Because of his jaw.  There was a nurse… was feeding me on account of my arms.  They put a needle in the good one. And she said, ‘I don’t care what anyone says about you, Bruce Moran. You’re a good boy underneath.’  And Bruce said, ‘I’m innocent, you know.’ And the nurse, she was real nice.” Anthony cleared his throat. “I didn’t know there was people like that for real.  I thought it was just my gramma. But that lady even brought me a soda and a ice cream from the machine. The guards tried to stop her, but she showed them the chart and said I was undernourished. The doctor came in and wrote it down and everything.”

Carl felt his eyes fill with tears.  Anthony stopped talking, looked up. “Carlie? You okay?”

“I didn’t know,” Carl whispered.  “Bruce never told me…”  Anthony looked perplexed. “He never said anything about you. I just… I _wanted_ to take care of you,” Carl explained. Anthony smiled.

“Bruce liked you right away,” Anthony said.  “And then you was so respectful to me, even though I was just a skinny little thug with a big, ugly scar. Couldn’t even read until you came along. But you treated me like a real person.”

“I thought you were beautiful,” Carl said. “I never met anyone before and just thought how beautiful they were.”

Anthony smiled and pushed him playfully. “You met someone since?”

“Not a person…. When we went to that museum. The statues. You were like that. Or the first time I saw the ocean. That’s how it felt.  Like the world just opened up.”

“No one give me privacy like that before,” Anthony said, suddenly serious, kissing Carl’s lips.

Carl thought this over, running his fingers over Anthony’s collarbones.  “Is that why you like to stay covered up when we…?”  Anthony blushed bright red.  “I’m sorry, Anthony. I don’t want to embarrass you.”

“It’s,” said Anthony. “I got all scars on me. From my dad…”

Carl paused. Anthony looked down at the bed.  “But I see you in the shower.”  Anthony watched Carl’s fingers as they traced one faint scar and then another. And another, this one round and still slightly grey from years-old cigar ash.  The fingers stopped and Anthony lifted his eyes. “Oh,” said Carl.  Anthony held Carl’s gaze another moment, then looked down. “That was for me.” 

Anthony cleared his throat again. “I thought… how I feel seeing your hands all cut up. What I would want to do if someone done things to you like what he done to me. What I do wanna do.”

“If he wasn’t dead, I’d certainly want to have a talk with him,” Carl said.

“You’d wanna do more than just talk, Carlie,” said Anthony, serious-faced. “You don’t say it, but I seen how you feel.”

Carl’s eyes filled with tears and spilled over. “I love you,” he said, voice breaking. “I’m in love with you.  Anthony, I love you, so much. I didn’t know how to tell you how I felt.”

Anthony’s face opened into a glowing smile, showing Carl an expression of love he’d never seen before. “You been real good to me, Carlie,” he said, wiping Carl’s face. Carl, feeling as if the floor had dropped from beneath him at those words, nodded, unable to speak, and Anthony gathered him close again. 

“I love you, too Carlie, just the same,” Anthony murmured into his lover’s ear, and Carl felt as if an iron band had been released from his chest.  Anthony’s stomach rumbled then and they both laughed.

“I’ll get the cake,” said Carl.

 

****


	11. You are loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-canon. Carl and Anthony receive a gift from the Machine. Anthony finally tells Carl about the day he was blown up.

One day, they received a duffel bag full of cash. Millions of dollars in different currencies. And newspapers saying Root and Sameen were wanted for crimes against the state. Carl wanted to use the money to go back and help, but Anthony brought him to a coffee shop with a camera, laid down a newspaper with Root’s picture and the headline “WANTED.”  He folded the paper quickly and pulled Carl out of sight of the cameras, changed their hats and glasses and jackets. 

A pay phone rang, and a voice asked for Carl.

“She told us to stay,” Carl said. “She needs us here. Away. Safe.” Anthony nodded.  “You knew?”  Anthony shrugged.  He’d  stashed more clothes in a locker near the bathroom and they changed again.

They bought lunch and took a long walk by the water.

“How did you know?”  Carl asked, finally.

Anthony tilted his head, his eyes hardening against a sudden pain, and Carl felt the concern enter his expression. “I never told you yet, but they had to work real hard.  To save me.  I almost didn’t…”  he cleared his throat.  “It was bad. A lot of operations.”  Carl thought of the new scars that criss-crossed Anthony’s body now, the faint lines on his face.  The absence of his scar. 

“It wasn’t just to make you look different,” said Carl slowly.

“No,” said Anthony.  “I… it ripped my face up real bad.  I made them try and put it back, but it healed too good.  It don’t show the same.”

“It’s a miracle you have fingers,” Carl said, taking Anthony’s hand.

“They put in all new joints in the left.  I dunno how they done it.” Carl nodded.  “I never asked, Carlie, but they wouldn’t have done so much if there wasn’t something they needed.  It was a lot they done…” His voice broke and his lips quivered. “A lot…” 

“Okay,” said Carl.  “It’s okay, Anthony.  You don’t have to say any more.  I’ll…. Let's think about it.”  Anthony nodded, and Carl took his arm and squeezed.  They took a few more steps.  “You never asked?”

“All she said was,” Anthony started, paused.  “All she said was ‘you are loved.’”

Carl blinked back tears.  “That’s certainly the truth.”

 


	12. A puzzle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-Canon. Carl and Anthony are discovered in hiding. They finally have a talk about all that Anthony had been doing to look after Carl.

Things had been good, almost too good, for the first few months after they ran away from Moretti. After he’d tried to have Carl killed. After Carl had taken the lives of three men he respected and had, until that moment, even liked. The group home had showed him that real trust was rare. His father confirmed that betrayal was a constant danger for someone like him—the throwaway boy of a ruthless killer. 

Carl lacked the true heart of a killer at first, though. He killed that first time to save himself, but ultimately his goal was to get back to Anthony. To make sure his friends were safe. To protect the people he loved. It was this alone that saved him from descending to the type of selfish evil that he thought motivated his father and Anthony’s. He would build his empire for reasons other than dominion.

Taking a life was never easy. It harmed the soul. And in the weeks that followed, Carl vowed that he would spare Anthony that damage, as long as he could. Although even then, he knew that their fate had been sealed. That if Anthony stayed with him, they would need to seek vengeance because otherwise they, too, would be killed. That he had fixed himself on a path. 

For his part, Anthony had remained concerned and watchful. He knew that they were men of an older time. Knew that he was the muscle and that it was only a matter of time before he was called on to do more than flatten his enemies with a blow. That his job was to take care of Carl, so Carl could make the plans. He hadn't counted on how much Carl would need, how much he, Anthony would have to know and learn and understand. And their love affair left Anthony breathless, reeling under an onslaught of tender emotions he had never suspected existed in anyone, even his grandmother. 

Carl didn’t realize, at first, all Anthony had been doing for him. Not until the night that Frankie, who worked for one of the Moretti crews, recognized Carl at work in a small grocery. Carl had, somehow, reached inside himself and played it just right. Cool, but not too cool. Even so, the exchange spooked their boss, who told them to run for it. Until that moment, Carl hadn’t understood that the grocer had once been a gangster.

They hadn’t gone home, instead staying at a tiny, shabby hotel near where Anthony had worked during their first weeks in the city. They gave false names—it was the first time Carl learned that Anthony had been calling himself Gino—saying they were brothers. At four, a noise woke Carl. Anthony rubbed his back and cupped the back of his head in a hand. “Go back to sleep, Carlie. I got you.”

“Anthony? Have you been up all night?” Anthony shrugged. 

“I,” said Anthony. “It’s okay. I got you. It’s okay for now.” Carl had asked, the first time Anthony said that to him. He felt the same prickle of sadness he’d felt when Anthony said it was what his grandmother had always said—that she’d never, ever lied and told him he could stay safe with her for good. 

“Please, Anthony,” Carl said. “Talk to me?” Anthony shifted uncomfortably. Suddenly all the small gestures that had been niggling at the back of Carl’s mind crystallized. The careful pauses at corners. The days Anthony insisted they stay home. All the hours he had put into making sure the windows worked smoothly and the fire escape was clear. While he, Carl, had been struggling within himself, so had Anthony. Even while he had looked after both of them. Carl closed his eyes in shame. He had failed as a partner and a friend, as a boss. Not held up his end. Let Anthony shoulder all of the load.

Carl sat up, rested on an elbow and pressed a hand against his lover’s face. “You get some sleep now, bello,” he said. “I need to think for a while.” Anthony gave a look. “You’ve carried me, Anthony. For months. Get some rest.” Still, Anthony hesitated. “Please. Let me hold you a while. Do my part.”

Anthony rested against Carl’s shoulder and closed his eyes. His body relaxed and his breathing slowed. Carl rubbed the muscles of Anthony’s back meditatively, pressed his lips against Anthony’s head. Then Anthony’s body contracted. “Hey,” Carl said, and Anthony wept. “Anthony, my Anthony,” Carl said again and again. “I’m sorry. Thank you for taking care of me all these months, bello. I’m sorry.”

“I been real worried,” said Anthony, between heaving breaths. 

“Why didn't you say anything, mi amore?” Carl asked gently, smoothing the hair from Anthony’s face and kissing the top of his head. 

“You was so… hurt, Carlie,” Anthony took a breath. “Not just your hands. You. The inside part. And I didn’t know neither. All what I would have to do. How to make you better.” He pressed his face against Carl’s neck and Carl crooned softly. 

“I scared you. I’m sorry. Was it all the homemaking?” Anthony lifted his head, his face a study in conflict. Carl thought he knew how much Anthony savored their happy home life together. 

“I didn’t know if you was getting better,” Anthony said, finally. “You been talking to that old man too much. What if you thought it was all over and we was safe? How was I gonna take care of you?” 

Carl kissed Anthony’s forehead. “You did real good Anthony. I…” Carl struggled for words. “Anthony I never knew how much... I need you to know something.” Carl closed his eyes to gather his thoughts. “Anthony, that night, I realized something. You will always come first for me. Nothing else. Just you.”

“You too,” Anthony said. “For me.”

“Oh, I know,” said Carl. “You are…. I don’t have words for all the things you have been to me, Anthony. I was so very wrong to walk away from you. To think Moretti could make a place for me. And I was trying to make up for it, to show you how important you are to me. To thank you for saving me. To make you feel special.” Anthony pressed his face against Carl’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Anthony.”

“I thought you was dead,” he whispered. As the words left his lips, Anthony began to weep. “I thought you was dead, Carlie. It broke my heart.”

Carl felt his eyes fill and spill over as he realized what he had nearly done to his closest friend. “I’m so sorry. I was a fool, Anthony. But now…I think we can learn this together. If you can forgive me. What do you want to do?”

And Anthony thought for a few moments. “If we can’t get away, I want to take them out, Carlie, for what they done. And we can’t leave Bruce in the lurch. But we ain’t ready for nothin’ too big. We gotta stay low, be someone else for a long while. But I gotta learn it.”

Carl nodded. “It’s a puzzle. I need to solve it. Tease out the connections. See who benefits. How to get ahead, but I don’t want to take you for granted, Anthony. I…know this isn’t what you thought it would be.”

“I think,” Anthony said, then stopped.

“What?”

“I think,” Anthony said again. “I think you done real good today, Carlie. I’m awful proud of you.” Carl’s heart swelled. “I’m… real lucky, too, how good you been to me, but mostly I’m proud of you. You done real good.” 

“I’ll do my best to be worthy of you, Anthony.”

“Me, too, Carlie,” Anthony said.


	13. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carl and Anthony hide the money from the Machine and find a letter from the past....
> 
> Post-canon.

The first day, they found a safe place (actually many places) to stash the cash from the Machine, and in the next days, Carl and Anthony hired safe deposit boxes across the city and bought a small apartment building in another part of town.  On the sixth day, Anthony quietly checked on Cayman Island and numbered Swiss accounts Bruce had set up for them over the years. 

Then he brought Carl to a deposit box Bruce had given them thirty years before. “I’m sorry. I underestimated you, Bello,” Carl said.  “I’d forgotten all about this.  It was so long ago.” 

“I’m not,” said Anthony.  “It was the only way to keep you safe.”

Carl, about to respond, paused, as Anthony opened the box.  Money (of course—they had left money everywhere in those days, just in case). A gun. A yellowing photograph of Bruce’s grandparents.  A manila envelope with a birth certificate.  Carl’s.  A letter folded into a floral envelope with two locks of dark hair tied in faded blue ribbons.  And a note from Bruce. 

> _If you’re reading this, I’m dead, and things is not the way I hoped.  But it serves me right.  All the things I done. Lies I told you._
> 
> _I’m sorry I never said, but this was all part of a plan.  Not mine. My grandpa’s.  To get back at the Five Families for killing his sons, take them down.  He found out about you two and he wanted you to do it. Turn the knife._
> 
> _This is your claim on it.  To reunite the families. Johnny Moretti changed it, but Marlene Elias put him on the first birth certificate when Carl was born._
> 
> _The letter is from Don Moretti’s goddaughter.  Anthony’s ma. Donna Luchese.  You’re the son of Dante Genovese. She figured it out once she stopped doing all the drugs._
> 
> _My grandpa paid someone off to get me moved in the hospital. Threatened to beat me worse if I didn’t make friends with Anthony.  Best day of my life until we all got together.  I grew up with dozens of cousins, but I never had a brother until I met you two._
> 
>  

Carl looked at Anthony and Anthony looked back, the whole of their lives recolored by these words from their best friend. A friend who had been forced to win them over.

“We done it, didn’t we? Just like the old man wanted.”

Carl nodded.  “Indeed, we did, Anthony.”

They stood then, a moment, unable to find words for their feelings.

“He was always good to me,” Anthony said. “Every time.”  Carl nodded and cleared his throat, squeezed Anthony’s hand.


	14. Holding out on you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthony makes a confession as they flee their first home together. Pre-canon
> 
> "I, Carlie. Well, I know we ain’t gonna able to get married or nothing…” Carl’s eyes filled with tears. “Hey,” Anthony said. “You ain’t mad?”

They’d never talked about it again, but there had been one night, when words failed both of them and they had nestled together and lain awake for hours. Three years after Carl was nearly killed by his father’s men, the day after they left their first real home together.  The day after Carl blew up their kitchen and Anthony had beaten a man half to death to protect Carl from Moretti.

Carl woke up to Anthony’s handsome, pensive face. 

“Hi Anthony,” said Carl, smiling. 

“Hey Carlie,” Anthony’s tentative smile faltered. 

Carl smoothed Anthony’s hair. “Something wrong, bello?”

“I been holding out on you,” Anthony said.  Carl waited.  “For a while now.”  Carl nodded. He knew they’d been protecting each other.  

“I trust you,” Carl said.  Anthony looked down and Carl felt his middle twist.  Did Anthony have a girlfriend?  A child? Then Carl remembered how he’d blown up their kitchen the day before.  He could hardly be upset with Anthony, no matter what he’d done. “It’s all right, Anthony.”

“It’s…. remember how my grandpa was so upset about that robe?”  Carl started.

“The robe? All those years ago?”    

“Yeah,” said Anthony. 

“The one I found in the old suitcase?”

“Yeah,” said Anthony. “It was…. He hid a bunch of cash and stuff.  Up where we been staying.  I, uh, I give some of it to Bruce without telling you. You know, the first time he come up?  He invested that…. Well, we got more money than you been thinking. A lot more. This whole time.  I brang a lot I didn’t say nothing about neither.”

“In that bag you had?”  Anthony nodded.  Carl smoothed Anthony’s hair again, thinking of tose early days when he had blindly staggered behind his friend. “I had wondered why you weren’t more worried about renting that flat.”  Anthony shrugged. “And you shared everything with me. What’s brought all this on, Anthony?”  

“We, ah, I thought, yesterday, when we left…. I, Carlie. Well, I know we ain’t gonna able to get married or nothing…”  Carl’s eyes filled with tears. “Hey,” Anthony said. “You ain’t mad?”  Carl shook his head.  Anthony took his hand. “I wanted to be real clear how I been feeling about you. That this thing between us, for me, it’s serious.  And when I told you I was in for whatever you wanted to do, well, maybe I meant more than it sounded like. Not just business.” 

“I feel the same way, Anthony,” said Carl.  Anthony waited, aware of more than Carl knew. “And… I held out on you, too.  I was… that old man from the book store.  I figured out…. Moretti’s uncle.  My uncle. I did all this to get away from him.”  Anthony nodded. “You knew?”  Carl’s stomach twisted again.  No wonder Anthony had been so worried.

“First time I seen him,” said Anthony and Carl went very still.  “He used to come see my Grandpa, when I was little.  Don Moretti, they taught me to call him.  He didn't remember me.” Carl waited. “He was a… enforcer for him.  My grandpa was.”

“So your last name isn’t Genovese?” Anthony tilted his head. “I thought that was why all your juvie friends call you Geno.”

“They changed it…. After…  To match my Grandpa, so’s he could visit.”  He took a deep breath.  “I… there’s more…” his voice faltered.

Carl wanted to gather Anthony in his arms and soothe him, but instead he squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want, Anthony. I know there’s things we don’t talk about.” 

“I was trying to keep things simple at first.  Not put too much on you. And there was already so much…”

Carl nodded.  “I understand.”  Anthony nodded. “So we need new names?”

Anthony cleared his throat.  “Yeah,” he said. “I guess we do.”

“You hungry?”

“I could eat,” said Anthony, but he wrapped a muscular arm around Carl’s waist and kissed him. Carl gently smoothed a livid bruise on Anthony’s shoulder.  “He was alive when I left him at the hospital,” Anthony said.

“I know,” said Carl.  

“It’s gonna happen if we keep on like we done.”  Carl’s eyes flew wide.  “I know we ain’t said nothing,’  but we’re in this…. They left us a lot of secrets.  I….”  Anthony rested his head on Carl’s shoulder. Carl rubbed his back.  Then Anthony went still.  “You done it for me?”

“Yes, my beautiful Anthony,” Carl said.  “I… something breaks inside when you kill.  I don’t want that for you. Not after what you’ve been through.”

“I love you, Carlie,” Anthony whispered.  He didn’t say that he knew his place—that he’d be the killer one day.

“Those bruises must hurt,” Carl said.  Anthony shrugged.  “Let’s clean you up and have breakfast. I want to get on the road.  I feel too exposed here.” Anthony looked up in surprise. “You still have that map?  The one with the places circled?”  Anthony nodded.

“Sorry,” he said.

“No, no,” Carl said.  “I would have died if it hadn't been for you. Where to next?”

“I want to ask Bruce,”  Anthony admitted.  “Let him know before we decide anything.”

Carl kissed Anthony’s head. “We can call from the road.”

 

 

 


	15. Always in luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Anthony, I loved you the first minute I saw you. The first time you smiled at me. The first time we touched. Our lives have never been safe, but I wanted that for you. One safe place. All I had to give you was me.”
> 
> Seven days after a bag of money appears, the Machine sends a car for Anthony and Carl. Afterward, Carl decides to send a message back to Brighton Beach. 
> 
> Post Canon

On the seventh day, a car came for them, and they spent hours talking to the Machine.  Days passed, travelling from place to place not knowing where they were going or what would happen next.  Answering questions about business and ruthlessness and loyalties. Oathbreaking and revenge.  

Finally, they were brought to a salon where their hair was colored and their clothes changed. Then a car left them off at a pancake shop about a mile from the book store.  Anthony steered Carl into a menswear store and they bought new clothes, leaving their old ones in a dumpster.

More days passed.  Then weeks.  They woke up one night in the moonlight. It took Anthony a moment to realize that Carl had been watching him sleep.

“I have something to ask you,” Carl said. Anthony tilted his head, but just a little. “I want a map of Brighton Beach, if you can find one.” Anthony rubbed Carl’s chest, thoughtfully, and Carl heard the silent objection. “I want to send a message.”

“Is that a good idea?” asked Anthony.  “They killed Bruce.”

Carl looked bleak. “We can’t go back,” he whispered. “I can’t ask you…”

“Hush, Carlie,” said Anthony. “We got a back door. We planned it.”  Carl nodded.  And then Anthony froze.  “Is it me?”

“You’ve been having nightmares,” Carl said. “Ever since that bag came.  Since we talked that time.” 

“Sorry,” said Anthony.

“No, bello,” said Carl.  “Don’t be sorry.  I think we should …talk more. We can’t trust a psychiatrist. Bruce is dead. There’s no one else we can really trust.”

“It’s that day keeps coming back to me,” said Anthony.  Carl waited.  “The one where I thought Moretti got you. All those years ago.”

“Because we’re back?” 

“I remember how it felt.  I was so happy—I couldn't believe you felt the same for me as I did for you. And so scared.  I knew that it couldn’t last, it was too perfect, and then they found us.”  Anthony pressed his face against Carl’s neck.  Carl patted him on the back.  “I’m sorry,” Anthony said again. 

“No, caro mio,” Carl said. “I’m sorry.” Anthony rested against Carl’s shoulder and Carl rubbed his back and kissed him. “You miss your confessor?”  Anthony choked, and wrapped an arm around Carl, hard.  “Oh, bello,” Carl said. “It’s all right.  We’ll figure something out.”

In the morning, Carl went into the book store to find some self-help books.  “Let’s start reading these,” Anthony who had just put bacon in a pan, moved to kiss him. 

“Maybe we could learn to meditate? Or yoga?” Anthony suggested. “We never done that before.” Carl paused. “No?”

“Whatever you want, bello,” Carl said.

Anthony nudged Carl’s elbow. “What?” 

“How am I going to be able to control myself watching you there in yoga pants?”  Anthony’s breath huffed out in a laugh. 

“I’ll wear them sweatpants you hate,” said Anthony, setting a palm at the small of Carl’s back and kissing him. Carl frowned and Anthony nudged him again.

“Your rear is so sexy in those,” Carl said. “It’s why I don’t like you wearing them out.”  Anthony squeezed Carl’s elbow and went into the bedroom.  Carl turned the bacon and began to lay out paper towels. “You okay in there?” He called when the bacon was done enough to take out of the pan. 

“Yeah,” Anthony said. Carl looked up from the neat lines of bacon to see his lover, wearing the sweatpants, moving toward the stove on bare feet.  Carl turned off the burner. Shooed Anthony back.

“Stay back. Careful of the grease,” Carl started, holding out his arm. “You could get hurt. Where’s your shirt? Go get dressed.”

“I love it when you get all bossy with me,” Anthony said. “Do it more.”

Carl took in the sweatpants. “You got anything on under those?”

“I know a way you could find out,” Anthony said. 

Carl brought Anthony into the bedroom, turned down the covers. He looked back, and a memory washed over him of the first time they’d shared a bed. The first time he ever held Anthony against his shoulder.  Back in the days when they weren't anybody: just throwaway kids with no parents or homes or future. A simpler time, when they were boys finding their way in a harsh and unyielding world. The days when the scars marring Anthony’s beautiful body were small, inflicted years before by a stepfather, rather than the huge swaths of fading pink tissue along his chest and arms and legs.

Carl took Anthony’s hand. “Do you remember the first time we slept together? In the same bed?”  


“At Gloria’s.” Anthony said. “I never said. But I was dreaming about you.  When I…” he stopped, remembering a long-ago embarrassment. “I almost died, I never been so ashamed of myself.”

Carl squeezed his lover’s hand.  “You’d already saved my life,” he said. “More than once.  I would have died in that place without you. My soul at least. Even with Bruce as a friend.” 

“Is that why you were so nice about it?” Anthony asked. “No one never… I expected you to hit me.”

“No,” said Carl, surprised at the question. “I thought you knew.  You trusted me, and I didn't want to betray….” The words seemed too cold as he uttered them and Carl paused. “Anthony, I loved you the first minute I saw you. The first time you smiled at me. The first time we touched. Our lives have never been safe, but I wanted that for you. One safe place.  All I had to give you was me.”

Anthony cleared his throat. He started to speak, then stopped and looked his feelings. “I don’t got enough words for how you make me feel, Carlie.”

Carl moved forward and passed his palm over Anthony’s bare waist. “You have more than enough words for me, Anthony.”

“Not always,” Anthony said, clearing his throat again, then pressing his lips against Carl’s. 

“Can I check to see what’s under those sweatpants?” Carl asked.

“You looking for anything particular?” Anthony said.

“Just you,” Carl said.

“You may be in luck, then,” said Anthony as Carl tucked his fingertips into the waistband of Anthony’s sweatpants.

“I’m always in luck when I’m with you,” Carl said.

 

 


	16. The first time...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "At dinner, Anthony sat up straight and put his napkin in his lap. He answered questions in complete sentences, wiping his mouth neatly before speaking, which he did instead of shrugging or grunting."
> 
> The first time Carl and Anthony sleep together in the same bed.
> 
> Pre Canon.

Even after he’d been sent to the group home, Carl stayed in touch with his foster mother, Gloria.  She had a soft spot for him and he knew he couldn't afford to lose a friend, even one who refused to tell him who his father was.  One day, about six months after he’d left, she got permission to invite him for dinner, and Carl brought Anthony along.  Bruce wouldn’t be around, and they tried never to leave anyone alone with the night crew.

“Gloria,” said Carl, trying to act embarrassed that she was hugging him, but instead blinking back tears. She hugged Anthony, too, before asking his name, and it took a second for Carl to realize she was letting him wipe his eyes.

“This is Anthony,” Carl said. Bruce had convinced Anthony, in juvie, to change his name to the same as his grandfather’s, leaving his old name behind.  Even Carl didn’t know, yet, the name Anthony had been born with. The name that linked him to the five families.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Anthony said, looking Gloria in the eye, and holding his hand out politely the way he had seen Carl do. 

“You’re staying over. I made up your old bed,” Carl saw that something was wrong, that she’d invited him so she could ask about one of the new foster children. A skinny ten-year-old boy with a split lip came in, pulled away when Gloria tried to kiss him, and glared at Carl.  He caught sight of Anthony, his face taking on a stunned curiosity.

“I don’t want to put you out, ma’am,” said Anthony, not seeming to notice the boy.  Gloria brushed this aside.

“It’s all set up. It would put me out if you didn’t.  And please call me Gloria, just like Carl does.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Anthony. “I mean yes, Gloria, ma’am.”

“There’s no one here but me anyway,” said the boy. “Except those stupid babies they’re taking back tomorrow.”

“This is Carl and Anthony. You want to tell them your name?” Gloria asked.

“Nah,” said the boy, looking at Anthony.  “Well, maybe him.” Carl’s eyebrows rose.  He would never have spoken to an adult like that, not at that age.  And it had saved his life, more than once, but Gloria smiled. 

“Maybe later,” said Gloria.

“How’d you get that scar anyways?” the boy wanted to know.

“Leave Anthony alone for now,” said Gloria. “He’s company. Did you do your homework? Carl is good at homework. You want him to help you?”

The boy shook his head.  “He helps me,” Anthony said.  The boy went and got his books.  He sat close to Anthony, but didn’t object while Carl looked over his homework.

“You sure this is right?” Carl asked, pointing to a math problem.  The boy looked at Anthony.

“I’m not sure,” said Anthony.  “Can you explain it to me?”  The boy looked at Carl, then shook his head, but he corrected the mistake and gave Anthony the paper.  “I don’t like too much talking, neither,” said Anthony, pointing to the next mistake.

“He doesn’t normally talk this much, even, ” said Carl.  The boy started to smile, but winced and returned to his work.

 

****

At dinner, Anthony sat up straight and put his napkin in his lap. He answered questions in complete sentences, wiping his mouth neatly before speaking, which he did instead of shrugging or grunting. He ate his bowl of salad first, cutting the vegetables carefully and making sure no green stuck out of his mouth as he chewed, then emptied a heaping plate of lasagna and garlic bread. He refused seconds, but Gloria ignored him, putting more food on his plate and refilling his salad bowl. After that, Anthony left a little, to show he wasn’t hungry, then, when everyone was done, he cleaned his plate again and carried it and the others into the kitchen without being asked. The boy, who had mimicked Anthony throughout the meal, followed with the empty salad bowls. Carl silently wondered where Anthony had been hiding this well-bred side of himself. 

“How did you meet such a nicely brought up boy in that place?” Gloria wanted to know. 

“There’s all sorts in there,” Carl told her, standing to pick up the lasagna tray, but Gloria pushed him back down. “Good and bad. You’d be surprised.”  Carl looked his question and she tilted her head toward the kitchen where the boy, evidently eager to impress, was showing Anthony how load the dishwasher. 

“How do you like it?” she asked. “Is it better than here?” Anthony, coming back into the room, the boy at his side, went a shade whiter. 

“Not at all.  The food isn’t good,” said Carl, seriously. “Not like this. There’s nowhere safe to leave anything. The nights get bad sometimes,” he said. “Noisy,” he added, so Gloria wouldn’t worry.

“I would never go there unless I had to,” Carl saw that Anthony was looking right at the boy. “Not if I had it good someplace like this.” The boy looked, and Anthony said, “This is a good place.” After they finished the dishes, the boy brought out a pile of board games. None of them had all the pieces, so they mixed them up and they played until it was time for the boy to go to bed. Gloria fed them coffee cake out of a box, carefully spreading butter on top so the crumbs would stay on, and gave each of them a glass of milk.  The boy looked mutinous until Anthony thanked Gloria.

“Real milk,” said Anthony. “Not the kind from a box. In a glass, even. That’s a real treat.” 

“Thank you,” Gloria said to Anthony once the boy was in bed. “He… he never talks and he came home with that lip.” 

“Talking is easy, ma’am, I mean Gloria, ma’am,” said Anthony. “Listening is the hard part.” Gloria raised her eyebrows and looked at Carl, who shrugged. She put another piece of cake on each of their plates.

“It’s getting late,” she said, when they had finished. “You don’t have school in the morning, but you should go to sleep anyway.”

“We don’t?” asked Anthony.

“It’s a day for teacher training,” said Gloria. “I checked before getting permission for the visit.” Anthony went still. “Carl told me he was bringing a friend. They said it would be you or someone named Bruce. And they said you can come twice a year, plus holidays.”

When Carl had arrived at Gloria’s, shortly after finding his mother stabbed to death, he’d whimpered in his sleep, which upset the other children. After the first night, Gloria had set him up a bed in the alcove off the kitchen, then had a door put up. There was barely enough room to turn around, but Carl hadn’t minded.  “None of the others would ever stay out here by themselves, but Carl always liked his privacy,” she explained to Anthony. “There’s only the one bed. But you’re both thin. You’ll fit with room to spare.”

Carl turned back the covers and looked back at Anthony, who stood, in only his tattered underpants, skin beginning to goosepimple. They were so close together that Carl could feel the heat off Anthony’s skin. Carl swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat at the scras and fading bruises on his friend, and licked his lips. “You okay?” Anthony shrugged and climbed into the bed, watched Carl start to pull off his clothes. Gloria knocked, and Carl opened the door a crack, shielding Anthony from view, accepted some pajamas.  She’d gotten them for him, used, before he’d left. 

“Give me your clothes and I’ll wash them up for you,” said Gloria, kissing Carl’s forehead, and hugging him. “You’re losing weight.”

“I’m okay,” said Carl. “I got myself into this mess, anyways.”

“You’re coming back soon, Carlie.”  Gloria kissed him again and left so he could change.

He tossed one set of pajamas to Anthony, who shed his underwear and slipped on the pants under the covers.  Carl undressed and pulled on the pajama pants. Gloria knocked again and Carl handed her their clothes.

“Guess we’re not going anywheres,” said Anthony as Carl climbed in beside him.  It was cold, and Carl huddled closely beside Anthony, clasping their bare feet together while the buttoned their tops. 

“Guess not,” said Carl. He jostled Anthony playfully.  “I didn’t know you was such a gentleman.”

Anthony huffed out a laugh. “My gramma learned me,” he said, then paused. “I wonder what happened to my ma sometimes,” he murmured, so quietly Carl almost didn’t hear him.  Carl heard the tremor in Anthony’s voice and moved closer. Carl had never asked why Anthony was in juvie, although he had heard that Anthony cut his father’s throat while he lay in a drunken stupor after beating his wife one time too many.

At Bruce’s request, Carl had looked up the news coverage on microfilm at the library.  “I’ve got a reputation to maintain,” Bruce said. “Can’t be fiddling with microfilms.” Carl waited. “Plus, in juvie… you don’t ask.  It’s different for you.” The story had gotten coverage because of the connection to the Five Families. It made Carl throw up. The man Anthony knew as a father had attacked Anthony, breaking his arm and locking him in a closet. The grandfather had passed out when the father struck him, and when he woke up, Anthony was sitting, holding his father’s hand, covered in blood, his own face slashed open. Anthony had kept silent when his mother cried and said he was only trying to protect them. The grandfather had a stroke in the witness stand. Anthony had been sentenced to juvie until he was eighteen, but won an appeal and was released to the group home early for good behavior.  When Carl came back, Bruce had squeezed his arm. “It must be worse than I thought.” Carl had bowed his head, and Bruce half hugged him. “Damn.”

Carl thought of this, and something about the closeness of his friend in the darkness loosened his tongue. “It wasn’t you, was it?” Carl asked, and Anthony pressed his face against Carl’s shoulder, shaking his head. Carl closed his arms around Anthony, feeling a kind of rightness in holding his friend like this and a profound sadness for the little boy Anthony had been. “Sorry, Anthony,” Carl said, while his friend fought back tears. He rubbed Anthony’s back, and Anthony tucked an arm around Carl’s body. 

Then Anthony went still, the way he had when Carl first showed him how to read.  “You knew?”

“Everyone knew,” said Carl.  “I mean, everyone who paid attention.”

“I wasn’t even man enough,” Anthony muttered. Carl cupped the back of his head in a hand.

“You wasn’t even eleven,” said Carl, his face close by Anthony’s ear so no one would overhear. “Just like that kid in there.  You think he could take me out?  Let alone you?” Anthony shrugged, made a confused sort of noise. “It wasn’t your job. They should have protected you, not the other way around.” Anthony went very still, resting his head on Carl’s shoulder.

“Did you really think the alphabet song was about animals?” Anthony asked. Carl started, confused by the sudden change in topic. “I don’t want you just saying things to make me feel better.”

Carl chuckled. “I used to sing it ‘itch a blue jay, elephant or bee.’ My mom,” he cleared his throat. “My real one. She used to laugh, so I kept doing it.” Anthony started to move away, but Carl tightened his arms. “No. You’re fine,” he said. Anthony didn't say anything. Carl was about to say something else, but instead, lulled by the warmth of his friend beside him, he fell asleep.

 

****

He woke up a few hours later when Anthony yanked away from him, letting cold air in under the covers. “Wha..?” Anthony was too mortified to speak, pulling sodden pajamas away from an impressive erection. “Anthony?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” The panic and shame that laced Anthony’s anguished whisper snapped Carl fully awake.

“What’s wrong?” Carl asked. Without thinking, he smoothed Anthony’s hair, rubbed his arm, pulled the covers back around him. “You okay? Anthony? Hey. What is it?”

Anthony shrugged, trembling, mumbled, “dunno,” then covered himself with both hands. 

“Oh,” Carl’s insides writhed. Anthony had spent years in juvie, never having a private moment.  Maybe he’d never had a wet dream. It seemed unlikely that he’d wouldn’t know, somehow, what had happened.  Then Carl remembered his first time waking up like that.  He thought he’d wet his bed, then slunk around the house in a welter of embarrassment until Gloria left him a book. He couldn’t imagine having a wet dream in a strange place, especially not the group home.  Or in bed with someone else. “That happens sometimes,” said Carl, gently. Anthony suppressed a whimper, grunting instead. “It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”  Anthony didn't want to walk across the house to the bathroom in wet pajama bottoms, so Carl went to get something for him to wash up with. He came back into the room to find Anthony shivering, covering himself with two hands, the pajama bottoms folded neatly on the floor. Carl handed him warm, damp paper towels, and some clean underwear he’d found folded with their clothes…they were his, left behind when he was taken away.

Carl gave Anthony some privacy, rinsed out the pajamas and hung them to dry, then waited for Anthony to tell him it was okay to crawl back into the bed. “Did it ever happen to you?” Anthony whispered, urgently, still shivering.

“Yeah,” said Carl, crowding closer for warmth. “A lot of times…. Before.  Well, right here, actually.” Carl felt the tension leave Anthony’s body. He’d never spoken aloud about this kind of thing to anyone, and he had to push down the impulse to squirm in embarrassment. “Whenever I dreamed something… uh, well, uh, sexy. I guess. It’s…” The bed was small for the two of them and as Anthony let himself relax, Carl slipped an arm around him. “Ok?”  Anthony nodded. “It was embarrassing. It was the first thing that happened that I would never have told my mom…my real one. I thought…” he paused before revealing that shameful memory. “I thought I wet the bed. Then I thought I was some kind of pervert, but it’s not a big deal. It’s normal.” Carl felt Anthony thinking in the darkness.

“I don’t want it happening there,” Anthony said.

“Nothing sexy there anyways,” Carl said. “You don’t have to worry.” Anthony chuckled, then they both grew grave.  It was better than it had been at first, but things still got very bad.  Anthony had marks on him that made Carl’s heart burn.  “It won’t matter even if,” said Carl. “It’s just me and Bruce in there. We won’t care.” Anthony shifted and Carl pulled him close again. “No,” Anthony went still at the urgency in Carl’s tone. “Don’t. I’m… not scared, but,” Carl admitted, voice wavering. “It was real bad at first. Here, even. Please, just stay next to me, okay?”

“Ok,” Anthony said.  He moved to let Carl rest on his shoulder, tentatively rubbed Carl’s back as if he had forgotten affection.  And, in an important way, he had.  This time Carl fell asleep first.   

In the morning, Carl was up early. He washed up and found Anthony a towel. While he helped Gloria feed a baby, put away the dishes, and unload the ancient dishwasher, she nudged his foot with a toe.

“I’m sorry, Carlie,” she said.

“For what? You were only ever good to me,” said Carl.

“For not helping you more.” Carl waited. “There’s such a huge difference in you.  You’re so much more contained and calm. It’s something about Anthony. He makes you… more you, the you I always saw, inside. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more of that. I’m sorry you felt so angry and hateful.”

Carl’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s not your fault at all.  I still miss my mom so much. My life. Back then…I don't think there’s anything you could have done. And I’m sorry.  I miss you. You were always only good to me.” He asked her to find Anthony’s grandfather.  “He used to come visit, Anthony says, and the lawyer wouldn’t say what happened, just that he got sick.”

“Of course.  What will you want for lunch?” Gloria asked, after she had loaded their plates with food.  Carl could see that she was using up all the leftovers in the house, and the boy—who still refused to tell them his name—willingly ate whatever Anthony did.

“Anything is fine,” said Carl.  Gloria made them peanut butter sandwiches.

“I have to work, so I’ll trust you two on your own.  Be back here before 4.  The social worker said she was coming back to pick you up at 8, and I’m not taking any chances.”  Carl nodded

He later found that she had tucked twenty dollars in his jeans pocket.

Anthony thanked Gloria solemnly for the dinner, breakfast and the clean clothes, and she folded him in a hug and kissed both his cheeks. “You’re a good boy.  I’m glad you’re being good to my Carlie.” 

 

**** 

Gloria gave them a few tokens and they took a subway to the museum to look at dinosaurs—Anthony’s grandmother had brought him when he was a little boy and he remembered the way. It would be crowded because it was a free day, but they got in first and then spent time in the older, musty areas full of naked people holding spears. Carl listened patiently while Anthony read the cards to him. Later, Anthony nudged Carl while they ate the sandwiches in a corner of the cafeteria. “I ain’t never…”  He stopped, looked, and Carl nodded.

“Me neither,” said Carl before Anthony’s startled glance told him that his friend had meant  something else.

“Somebody must have explained…” Anthony started, confused, and turning pink. “You know.”

Carl blushed bright red. “Oh. That. I’m, ah, um, Gloria, um, gave me a book,” he stammered. “Well, I never, uh, talked about that, er, kind of thing before. Never. Not with no one.”  Anthony tilted his head, his expression softer than Carl had ever seen it, and Carl could see he was trying not to laugh. “I meant I never slept with someone,” Carl explained. “…except my mom, when I was little.”

“My gramma rocked me all night,” Anthony offered. “When I was sick… or if I got scared in the night.”  Carl nodded.  He missed his mother so much that his body ached.  Anthony nudged his arm.

“I meant… I never gone back there before.  My gramma said I wasn’t old enough to see the naked people.” Carl chuckled and Anthony grinned.  “I’m not sure what she was so worried about.”

“I dunno,” said Carl. “Maybe old people get riled up by all them bones in their noses.”  They laughed together and the janitor shooed them to another part of the room.

They drank water from a fountain, and spent part of their money on cigarettes, which they sold  individually for a profit, and picked up flowers for Gloria and some candy, leaving them each with money to carry.  Dinner that night was tuna casserole and grilled cheese sandwiches.  Then Gloria made cookie batter and they let the boy lick the bowl while the cookies baked.

“I think youse guys should come over more.  We ain’t got cookies like this every day,” said the boy.  He looked at Anthony eagerly.  “My mama used to….”  Carl’s throat closed in sympathy as the boy’s face went grey. The child paused, then set down the bowl and left the room.  Anthony followed without a word.

Carl met Gloria’s eye and saw the tears flowing down her face.  “I wish Anthony had been here when you were small, Carlie,” Gloria said.  Carl nodded and squeezed her hand. As it turned out, they waited up for two hours before the social worker called and said she couldn’t pick the boys up until the next day. 

As they climbed into bed, Carl felt himself almost trembling.  Anthony met his eye.  “I ain’t never talked about so much personal stuff with nobody,” he said.  Carl flushed, but Anthony continued.  “Poor kid.”

“What happened?”

“His ma got killed in a accident. Car hit her right in front of him.” Carl started.  “He thinks his dad is away working. And his brother is in the army, but they ain’t got the same name.” 

“How’d he get that lip?”

“Tripped on the stairs at school. His shoes is too big.”

“You tell Gloria?”  Anthony nodded. “Thank you,” said Carl.

“We ain’t got to talk about nothing personal again?” Anthony asked anxiously.

Carl laughed. “Not unless you got more to say about those naked people with bones in their noses.”  Anthony smiled and shook his head.  They slept through the night and in the morning, the social worker picked them up and delivered them back to the group home.  As the car moved up the street, Carl watched Anthony’s face settle into harder lines. 

 

****

They came back to find that Bruce, who had spent the day with his uncles, brought back the inevitable (and welcome) bag of deli sandwiches. It had taken a couple of these visits for Carl to realize that Bruce had been bringing back leftovers—and that he was giving this food to Anthony and Carl rather than selling it. This time, Bruce also had a few half-empty containers of macaroni salad and cole slaw. “They always do this,” Bruce said, accepting a bag of candy bars and two packs of cigarettes. “No one in my family cooks. How was your visit?”

“The food was good,” said Anthony. “She was….” Carl listened, feeling amused yet saddened at Anthony’s descriptions.  “Real nice. She made a big salad. A good one. All fancy, with carrots shredded up and tomatoes and cucumbers and everything. In a separate bowl, like at a restaurant. Lasagna, and sausages in the gravy. And cake. The kind from a box. With butter. Garlic bread and all. Everything put out on a nice dish, like for real company. And breakfast, we got oatmeal and eggs and toast and even fried mashed potatoes with chicken and vegetables in.”

“Some day,” said Carl, swallowing a lump in his throat, “I’ll cook you a nice dinner.” 

Bruce laughed. “I like a lasagna myself,” he said. “But don’t tell anyone in my family.”  Then Bruce told them about the next job his family needed them to do. “But we got to be careful if they want me to be the legitimate one.”

“What did they say?”  Carl asked.

“They said they wanted Anthony full time,” Bruce met Carl’s eye and shook his head. Anthony looked up, stopped chewing.  “Said he was good in a fight.”  Anthony shrugged. He was good in a fight. “I said I didn’t know what your plans were.”

“I don’t like it,” said Carl. “Not yet. We’re too young. He could get hurt. We need him too bad.”

“I gotta learn it,” said Anthony with his mouth full. “Gotta learn enough to get into one of the family crews.  See how they run, maybe. You two go to college like you want. I ain’t book smart like you two. Someone needs to learn the streets.”

“Not yet,” said Carl, assailed by the memory of Anthony’s face pressed against shoulder. Not even Bruce had seen that vulnerable part of their friend. “We all need to learn to handle ourselves. We should stick together.”

Anthony titled his head in disagreement. “Not all the time. We gotta stay separate sometimes. They gotta think we’re part of them. It’s the only way.”

“You never used to talk this much,” Bruce said, looking first at Anthony and then at Carl. 

“Didn't have nothing to say,” said Anthony, starting on the sandwich again. Bruce smiled.

“He’s right, though,” Bruce told Carl. “We have to learn all the parts of the business. All of us.”

Carl thought for a moment. “Let’s get legit jobs, then, too, if we can. Just be part timers with your uncles for now. Be useful. They’ll understand, right?”  Bruce shrugged.

“If I convince them it’s a long game, maybe,” Bruce said. “No offense, Anthony, but you’re a little too goombah for a lot of those guys, anyways.”

Anthony shrugged as Carl thought this over. “They all work out. Maybe you can work in a gym part time. Learn to fight the right way. Maybe a gun range. Learn to shoot. We need to move around and learn the terrain. Then we can plan.”  Anthony tilted his head, thinking, then nodded his agreement.

Bruce slapped Anthony on a shoulder. “I told you we needed someone smart,” he said to Carl.  Anthony stopped chewing again, looked up, his eyes wide. “Yeah,” said Bruce, embarrassed. “I meant you. Only an idiot talks when he’s got nothing to say.”

“I must be the smartest guy you know, then,” said Anthony around a mouthful of bread.  Bruce laughed.

“You’re right about that,” said Carl, winking at Bruce. Anthony shrugged and devoted his attention back to the sandwich.

“Hey!” said Bruce, and Carl and Anthony laughed at him.

 

 


	17. We can't help how we feel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan comes to Carl looking for help.

 

Logan appeared at the university’s cafeteria one day with a woman.  “Nice beard.  Professoring seems to agree with you.  This is Harper Rose,” Logan said. “She came to deliver a lecture.” 

“We’ve met,” Carl said. Harper had watched while a man smashed his hand, then bandaged him up.

“Is there somewhere secure we can talk?”  Logan seemed anxious, fidgety in a way Carl hadn’t seen in their earlier encounter.  Harper’s cuff had a smear of blood on it.

“Lectures are more rough and tumble than I remembered,” Carl said blandly.

“Much,” Harper answered.  She held herself still and kept her face smooth. Carl recognized the look.  She’d taken a beating.

“You have a library pass?” Logan nodded.  “No one reads the classics any more.”

Carl met them in the library stacks by the shelves of Virgil and Pliny.  Logan wanted to leave immediately, but Carl objected.  “It’s a Farraday cage,” he said, handing Harper a bag full of painkillers and arnica gel and bandages. 

“Was it that obvious?”

“I’m a professional,” Carl said.  “What’s wrong?”

Logan stopped fidgeting.  “We need a place to hide out for a few days. Where a machine won’t be able to find us.”

Carl silently thanked Anthony for making him take up yoga—he breathed from the bottom of his soul—and clear the way to the train tunnel.  Carl showed them a study room in the library where they could hide if they needed to, promised to return in a few hours.  “If anyone asks, you’re preparing for your lecture.  But no one comes here.”

At home, Anthony’s face went still and hard before Carl said anything.  “Logan?”  Carl nodded.  He didn't bother to ask how Anthony knew what had happened—it had been like that in the old days before the Machine had found Charlie Burton.  “It’s okay, boss,” Anthony said.  “Where did you send them?”

“Nowhere,” Carl said.  Anthony frowned. He pulled a burner phone from a pocket.  “We have a meeting ground.  Where can we hide them out for a few days that won’t lead back here?” 

“Our old basement,” said Anthony.    

“You kept that up, too?”  Anthony tilted his head.    Carl felt a surge of annoyance.  “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“Cause Marco knows where it is.”   Anthony shifted.  “That’s how I was doing it.  Sent him money to renew the lease every year. Cleaner goes in every few months. Marco uses it sometimes, I think.” 

Carl froze. They had given Marco his start all those years ago, but they had stayed quiet, paying protection money when asked.  They did not want to appear to be coming back to take over. 

“You’ve been in touch?” 

Anthony tilted his head.  “He thinks it was both of us, anyways.”

 

****

Logan was surprised to see Carl so soon, accompanied by Anthony in hornrimmed glasses. He’d let his hair grow long, and it hung over his face, mingling with a beard. “You two look very intellectual. No one would know you.”

“That was the idea. We have a place for you.  It should be safe. Can we do anything else for you?” Carl asked.

Logan handed them a card.  “We’ll need an escape route for some computer programmers.  They’re in danger.”  Carl nodded.  They memorized the number, burned the paper, changed their clothes and left the old ones in Carl’s office in case Logan had planted a tracker on them.  As they put on jeans and sports jackets and wool caps, Anthony gave Carl a grim look.

“We need to go see Marco.”  Carl nodded.  

Marco had been their lieutenant back when they were very young men.  They’d never collected a cut of his earnings since. Carl felt angry with Anthony for perhaps the first time in their lives. 

“I got us a hotel,” said Anthony.  “Two, really.”  He paused.  “And then there’s a place to actually stay in.”  Carl’s anger disappeared as quickly as it started.

“Thanks, bello,” said Carl. 

“Sorry I lied,” Anthony said.

“I told you never to apologize for thinking about how to protect me,” Carl said.  “I’m sorry I got angry.”

“We can’t help how we feel.”

Carl thought this over.  “No, we can’t,” he said slowly. “And neither can they.”

“It’s not a hotel,” Anthony said.

It was their first-ever flat.  Carl felt tears begin to slip down his face when they turned the corner.  Anthony took his hand.  “We only have it a couple days. Something called Air BnB.”  Carl nodded. 

They stayed up late into the night, making a plan.  They didn’t have a crew, precisely, and they’d promised the Machine to avoid criminal activity.  One saving grace was that Marco hated cameras and phones as much as they did.  Another was that Anthony had invested in some bullet-proof vests. The third was that Marco, like them, had never enjoyed killing.


	18. It would break me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-Canon. 
> 
> "It was an excellent night. They ate a good meal, talked and laughed as if they were simply young men getting together during a school break. As if none of them was under the threat of death by a notorious and powerful criminal. As if Anthony and Carl hadn’t just embarked on a forbidden love affair. As if none of them were hiding any information from the others. As if Anthony and Bruce were not terrified that Carl might never recover from the attempt on his life. "
> 
> Bruce's first visit to Carl and Anthony in exile reveals secrets about Anthony's past. Carl reveals his skills as a homemaker and cook. Bruce and Anthony worry about Carl's mental health, even as they meet the first member of their future crew.

****

Bruce had introduced Marco about a month after Moretti tried to kill Carl.  The visit had come as a surprise, at least to Carl.

“Hey, Carlie,” Anthony called cheerfully. “Look what I found.” Carl, occupied with chopping olives up fine, returned the greeting, looked up when that well-loved palm settled on his back, kissed Anthony hello. “I got some steaks,” Anthony said, face bent in a smile.  He watched as Carl unfolded the waxed paper to reveal three handsome pieces of red meat.

“You must be hungry, bello,” Carl said.

“He’s treating you all right, then?”  Carl went absolutely still at the sound of that familiar voice, then looked up to gauge Bruce’s expression.  He was unprepared for the naked glow of affection on his friend’s face as Bruce patted Antony’s cheek, then his own, and kissed both of them hello, and wrapped them in a hug together. “You look good. Housework suits you.”

“Bruce,” Carl said, fighting back tears and moving away from Anthony.  He’d been very sensitive and he didn’t want to cry in front of Bruce. “Good to see you. Come see the place.”  Bruce followed Carl the two steps into the front room, while Anthony ran water in the bathroom. “How long are you staying?”

Bruce’s face snapped shut.  “It’s business, too. My uncle needs something he stashed up here with an old friend.  I got a few days off classes.” 

“Need any help?” Carl asked, hoping in his heart that Bruce would say no. 

“Nah. We took care of it,” Bruce said, his face relaxing into a warm smile as Anthony set a hand on Carl’s waist, gave him a squeeze.  Carl followed Bruce’s gaze. Anthony, who kept walking, gave a slight swagger as he entered the kitchen.  They watched as he greased a frying pan and took a few onions from a bag.  Carl caught Bruce’s eye.  “Took you two long enough,” Bruce said, low.

“It’s not a small thing to ask,” Carl said. “I wanted him to have a chance…  To consider his options.”

“Fair enough,” said Bruce.

“What about you, Brucie?”  Anthony called from the kitchen. “How’s everything else going? With… well, you know?”

Bruce flushed.  “Angie got pregnant.  Said it was mine.”  Anthony looked up sharply.  “Then she told Jimmie it might be his.” Anthony’s face went still. “I paid for her to go away and give it up.”

“You make sure?  It gets a good home?”  Anthony asked, and Carl’s heart twisted.  Bruce nodded.

“Yeah,” said Bruce.  “I ain’t…not after living with my old man.”  Anthony nodded.

Bruce pulled a couple of bottles of wine from a bag.  “Marolo. One of the dons.  My uncle don’t like it.  Says it’s for goombahs.”

“Perfect for us, then” said Anthony.  Carl chuckled.

“You told me you’d cook a nice dinner one day,” Bruce said.  “So I guess this is the night?”

“He’s cooked for us before,” said Anthony. “At the old place.”

“We didn't have Marolo,” said Bruce.  They all laughed.

“Come help with the salad,” Anthony said. “That’s what I do.”

It was an excellent night.  They ate a good meal, talked and laughed as if they were simply young men getting together during a school break.  As if none of them was under the threat of death by a notorious and powerful criminal.  As if Anthony and Carl hadn’t just embarked on a forbidden love affair.  As if none of them were hiding any information from the others. As if Anthony and Bruce were not terrified that Carl might never recover from the attempt on his life. 

The next day, Bruce gave them the key to a safe deposit box.  “If anything happens to me, I want youse guys to have what’s in here.” 

They spent the day hanging around, talking, and in the late afternoon, they walked Bruce back along the docks to the garage where a battered car sat.  An almost impossibly handsome man, a little older than they, slouched on the hood smoking a cigarette. 

“You’re early,” Bruce said.  He didn’t sound pleased or worried or upset, although Carl could tell he was all three at once.  “Anything wrong?”

“Sorry, bossman,” said the young man.  “I had to get out before they drug me off to church.  Would a took all day.”  He nodded, then, and Carl realized he already knew Anthony.  “You hate it when we’re late.”

“This is Marco,” Bruce said to Carl.  “Met him in juvie.  His grandparents live up here.”  Bruce took in the ground.  “You coming back down?”

“Man,” said Marco. “My grandma begged me to stay for her birthday.”

“Okay,” Bruce said.  They hung around for a few minutes, talking.  Then they left Marco, still smoking. 

“You gonna stay?” Carl asked as they left.

Bruce shook his head.  “I gotta get back.”

“Then take the car you gave us,” Carl said.  “We don’t use it that much.”

“Nah,” Bruce said. “Drop me at the airport. I’m too tired to drive after last night.”

“You gonna be okay once you get there?” Carl asked. Bruce nodded. “You want Anthony to go with?”

“No,” said Anthony and Bruce together, the frisson of panic echoing in both their voices. 

“I could call Nico,” Anthony suggested, squeezing Bruce’s elbow.  “He’d help you out.”

“I got it covered,” Bruce said. “I…. Marco’s gonna need a couple friends. He’s okay.”

“You know something we don’t?” Carl asked. 

“I know a lot of things you don’t,” Bruce said, jostling his friend. It would be years before Anthony told Carl what he and Bruce had been up to that day, or the day before.  Or the day before that.

And longer still before Carl told them what he had been doing. 

****

 “He know you been calling?” Bruce asked the day he arrived in Montreal.

“Nah,” said Anthony.  “I been working separate.  He stays home more.  Taking care of the place. Baking.”  Bruce’s face froze.

“Baking? Don’t that make you nervous?”

Anthony shrugged. “Crazy.  But I don’t want him thinking he can’t take care of himself, neither.  It would kill him.”

“How is he?”

“Pretty tore up.”  Bruce squeezed his arm.

“So what did you want me to take a look at?” 

Anthony brought Bruce to the front of a used bookstore. “I'm not sure.  It's been a long time since I seen him. Just take a look.” Bruce uttered a few very bad words as the old man looked up from his book.  “Yeah, I thought so. How’d you know?”

“I promised my grandpa I wouldn't talk about it. I got to go in,” Bruce said. “Back me up?” Anthony sloped in behind his friend. 

The old man’s eyes fell on Bruce. “You Moran’s boy? You got something for me?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Bruce. He handed over a rosary and a bible.  

“So it’s done?”  The old man asked. Bruce nodded.  “This your friend? Not one of my nephew’s?”

“No, sir,” said Bruce.  “Not one of your nephew’s.” 

“Friend of Moran,” the old man nodded.  He opened the lid of the bible to reveal a cutout full of cash.  “You look like my godson,” the old man said to Anthony.  “Dante. I loved him like my own son. Dante Gabriel Marconi Genovese.  The youngest. His father, Sal, was a very dear friend of mine.”  The old man showed them a picture of a very young boy, opening a frame that looked like a book.  Anthony’s heart nearly stopped beating.  His grandparents had the same frame.  The same picture.  He’d always thought it was a picture of him. It had been one of the few things he brought with him when he fled New York.

“Thank you, sir” Anthony said.  “But I don’t know him.” 

“You wouldn’t,” said the old man. “He died… twenty years ago.  Gunned down in the street. Last of the line. It broke all of our hearts.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Anthony.

“You come back if you need something to read.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Anthony. 

They left and at the end of the next block, Bruce cursed again.  “Your grandpa had that same picture. I had no idea.”

“Me, neither,” said Anthony.  They took a few steps.  “He likes Carl.”  Bruce stopped walking.  “He ain’t got no idea who the old man is.  It has me real worried.”

“It should,” Bruce said.  “You be careful.  Anything happens to you, it will break me.” And it would.

****


	19. Family is always important

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carl and Anthony look up an old friend.

“The boss don’t know no Dr. Phoenix.” A bit of a commotion at the door made Marco look up from his lunch. Two men had faced down his bodyguards with a look, handed over a card. 

“It’s them professors what gave the boys all them books,” said the accountant, pulling a bookmark out of his pocket. “Joey and Francois said they seemed way too calm. Last pair practically wet themselves. Not these two. They handle themselves like pros.”

“Paulie,” Marco said. The men all stopped talking. “Let them in.” Marco nodded to his men. “I want to talk to them alone.” Carl walked in first, looking resplendent in an expensive suit. Anthony stood behind him, stiff-faced, hair slicked back in a ponytail. Their beards had been trimmed; Anthony looked especially handsome with a goatee.

Marco stood up, moved around the table to take Carl’s hand. “I’d heard you were dead,” he said. He didn’t give Anthony a second look until his men closed the door, then hugged him, kissed both his cheeks, a liberty he’d never taken with Carl.

“We are,” said Carl. “And we want to keep it that way. I came to ask a favor.”

“I owe you, boss,” Marco began, but Carl waved this off.

“You’re the boss now,” he said. “I have no claim on you. I came only to ask a favor.”

“What do you need?” It was agreed that Marco’s men would escort the programmers from the border into the city in the back of a truck. “Can they fix my accounting software?” Marco wanted to know. “My son-in-law has been after me to upgrade to something more secure.”

“They’re very talented,” said Carl. “I’m sure they can do something for you.”

The next afternoon, Logan met with the son-in-law while Anthony escorted the three programmers through their basement and onto a train platform.

Logan was incensed when they phoned. “You bagged them?” 

“They wouldn’t keep the blindfolds on,” said Carl simply. “We warned them.” 

“They were terrified.” 

“I couldn’t let them see where Anthony is living,” said Carl. “I won’t give him up again. The last time nearly killed both of us.”

“This is about more than Anthony,” said Logan. 

“Not for me it isn’t,” said Carl. 

Logan sighed. “And what did you do with their sneakers? Their favorite sneakers, apparently. The lucky ones. The whining is driving me nuts.”

“They were drawing attention with those shoes. Those are very good boots we bought them. Sorels. The best. Made in Canada.”

That night, Anthony brought back steak and lobster. A meal they had always had after a loss or before a dangerous job. “I’m sorry,” Carl said. Anthony looked up, shrugged.

“This is part of us, too, Carlie,” he said. “Part of our history together. I think we should accept it. Stop trying to run away from things. That always got us in trouble.”

“Marco wants to meet more regular. Get some advice,” said Carl. Anthony went pale and Carl went to him and hugged him.

As always, Anthony thought of Carl before himself. “How will I protect you without a real crew?” 

“We’ll meet on neutral ground.”

“Why not at the library?” Anthony asked. “It’s hard to get in and out.”

Marco appeared at Carl’s office a few weeks later. “Professor Finch. Why Phoenix at my place?”

“I thought you’d appreciate the reference,” Carl said. “Besides, now things sell better because of Harry Potter. How can I help you, Marco?”

Marco’s eyes went flinty. “Why are you really here?” 

“I wish I knew,” said Carl, holding his breath until Marco’s face relaxed. “You must have heard what we did in New York, keeping to the shadows all those years. I had to avenge my mother’s murder. My conscience required it of me. Now, there is no claim. I’m dead. The next phase of my life remains a mystery.”

Marco had not become a boss by flying off the handle. “You don’t know?” 

“No,” said Carl. “And I meant it when I said you owe me nothing. You built this. It’s yours. I have no claim on you.”

“Your guy fixed all my computers,” Marco said. “And Anthony showed my chef an excellent putanesca. Best I ever had. There was a price on your head for years. Some Russian.”

“I’m dead,” said Carl. “Buried. That debt is dead and buried, too.” They looked at each other for a long moment. “You want we should disappear before anyone else recognizes us? We can do that.”

Marco set down an envelope. “No. I think you’re here for a reason. I could use your counsel,” he said. “You ran an excellent organization, and you were good to us. Some of the guys remember you.” Carl nodded. “And… my boss has got a little unstable. Erratic. It’s dangerous. People getting killed. I like things quiet. Smooth.”

Carl understood the appeal of a quiet life and orderly working conditions. “If you want to lead, his men must trust you,” said Carl, pushing back the envelope. “You need to take care of them first, and they’ll take care of you.” Marco nodded.

“Like you did for me,” he said quietly, nodding. “What if they betray you? You ever have that?”

“Did that happen?” Marco shrugged. “If you can, let the betrayal cause its own solution,” Carl said. “It sends a stronger message.” Marco nodded again, pushed back the envelope.

“That’s yours,” Marco said. “All the protection money my men collected from you.” Carl slid the envelope back again.

“No. I’m just like anyone else in your territory now. I owe you.” Marco protested again. “Maybe give it to your boys as a bonus? They’ve always been very polite.”

Carl went back to the hotel, heart in his throat. Anthony was in the bathroom, fiddling about with contact lenses and boxes of hair dye. “We could stay at the basement,” Anthony said. “Then disappear during the night.”

“Or,” said Carl. “We could go now.” Anthony nodded.

“I love you,” Anthony said. Carl’s heart melted.

“I love you, too,” said Carl. 

They slipped down a staircase, leaving most of their things behind. Marco was there, waiting for them with three armed men. Anthony tucked Carl behind him. 

Marco’s face clouded. “I must apologize,” he said. “I was wrong. I do owe you. For my start, for my success, for your kindness to my men, and for your excellent advice. I put out word. You’re under my protection. Eddie and Jimmy will be taking care of you.” Carl thanked him. “You’ll join me for dinner. Both of you,” Marco said. “I hate all these cameras, so we’ll go my way.” He nodded and one of the men handed Anthony a map. There would be a new one each week as they disabled or blocked different cameras and created mini dead zones to block cell signals. 

Anthony, who had fortuitously reinforced all the doors in their own flat, moved Eddie and Jimmy into the basement apartment. From that evening onward, business at the bookstore was much more frequent. They changed the windows to display books of warcraft and mythology and meditation—and bulletproof glass. A book group began to meet on Tuesdays, men and women reading about the history and arts of war. On Wednesdays a group read books of mythology and power and the ways of warriors. And Thursdays were for yoga and meditation. Marco’s men were soon taking advantage of a convenient dropping point for money and weapons. As it turned out, hollowed out books were an excellent vehicle for any number of things and the book store became a neutral ground for discussions between leaders of the underworld. Guns and knives were checked at the door. No one really knew who Carl and Anthony were, but Marco said he knew them from the old days, and it was left at that.

During some of the knottier negotiations, Marco sat with Carl in the kitchen while he waited for his bodyguard. The streets were safer, more orderly, which was a huge benefit. He also enjoyed a plate of putanesca from time to time. 

“How’d you learn this?”

“Anthony’s grandfather.” Marco nodded.

“Family is always important.”

"If you can trust them," Carl said.

"Then, too," Marco said.


	20. Spoils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carl and Anthony find a model for themselves as men of an older, more brutal time. Pre-Canon.

****

They were able to leave the group home because Gloria found Anthony’s grandfather. He’d been getting better from his stroke, and even though his account of events remained garbled, his testimony had cleared Anthony’s name. It was too late to save Anthony, but not too late to save himself. Or so the lawyers thought.

When the grandfather saw Anthony, he cried and said he was ready to go home. So Anthony moved into a tiny apartment with his grandfather, Carl went back to Gloria, and Bruce moved in with one of his uncles.

Everything seemed all right until the day Anthony went missing from school—they had to report in or risk being sent back to the group home. Carl skipped chess club and went to the apartment. When Anthony answered the door, the sour smell hit Carl first, then the tight look on Anthony’s face.

“I dunno what to do,” Anthony said, kicking the smelly laundry basket. 

“I thought you had a nurse,” said Carl.

“He won’t open the door,” said Anthony. “Said she steals things.”

Carl looked around the bare room dubiously, took in the battered couch and a couple of frayed blankets, two rickety orange crates and a black and white television with rabbit ears. “Does she?”

“We don't got nothin’ anyone would want,” Anthony said. “He keeps forgetting we’re not at his old house.” Anthony’s grandfather could be heard in the background.

“She took my good robe, Anthony!”

“It’s OK, Papa!” Anthony called, running back. The nurse, a sixty-something woman a head shorter than Anthony, hurried up to Carl.

“I no steal nothing!” Carl nodded. “I come if that nice boy is here. He a good boy.” Carl agreed. “I call. The laundry is coming.” Carl thanked her gravely. “You a nice boy, too.” The nurse patted his chest. “You go the high school. You fix he stays home with a tutor. You fix.”

Carl was about to say he didn’t understand when Anthony returned, shaking his head. The nurse, Rosa, patted his arm. “I fix you a nice supper,” she said. “With tacos,” she turned to Carl. “You stay. You eat.”

The doorbell rang fifteen minutes later and Rosa scolded the laundry workers for being late. “I tol’ you,” said the older man. “I ain’t coming with that crazy old man accusing me of stealing his good blanket.” The younger one paused, nodded at Anthony.

“Hey,” Anthony nodded back. Another person from juvie.

Once negotiations were finished, they sat with Mr. Marconi while he ate his dinner and fell asleep. He told them about his mother’s putanesca, and they promised to cook it the next day.

Then Anthony brought Carl to the kitchen. They ate the tacos. “Do nurses usually cook?”

“Nah,” said Anthony. “She brought some over one time. Said I looked too skinny.”

“What’s to fix at the high school?” Anthony brought Carl a pile of papers. Carl read through them and began to see possibilities. “We can sit for a GED? Not have to go to school?” 

“Yeah,” said Anthony. “You don’t have to if you don’t want.”

“Lemme see,” said Carl. The next day, Carl and Anthony met with a guidance counselor. In juvie, Anthony had earned almost enough credits to graduate by sitting in classrooms and not making any noise unless he was asked a question. Carl had more than enough credits to graduate already. No one had bothered to keep track for them.

“You’re a good student,” the counselor said, surprised. “Eligible for a full scholarship to city college by the look of it. I’ll fill out the paperwork for your diploma. The semester at city college starts in twelve weeks.” He phoned and gave Carl a list of his classes. 

“So, does Anthony need a tutor?” Carl wanted to know. “Or how does that work?”

The counselor blenched when he saw the address. “We’ve had poor luck sending tutors into that neighborhood. I don’t suppose you’d go? It’s $25 a day, three days a week. Usually we need a qualified teacher, but in this case, it wouldn't matter because the last classes are electives.” He looked at Anthony. “You’ll lose your free school lunch benefit,” he warned. “I can send a Meals on Wheels request for your grandfather, though.”

Carl agreed to tutor Anthony. The social worker placed him in a tiny studio apartment in a rat-infested building nearby. “It’s within the housing allowance, and because you are a full-time student, you can get additional aid. Do you have a bank account?” Carl did not. “Go get one this week.” Bruce took time away from his accounting classes to deal with the bank. “Do you have food stamps?”

“This could come in handy,” Bruce said when he saw the amount of food stamp money they were getting. Carl shrugged. “We need to make plans. Long term.” Carl nodded. “I got into a college for rich people. Scholarship.”

“Good for you,” said Carl. 

“Good for us. You?”

“City college, it looks like.”

“Good. You two can stay on the ground, then. Keep a place together.” 

It all worked out okay. Carl also worked himself into one of Moretti’s crews. Anthony thought it was a bad idea, Carl could tell, but he kept those thoughts to himself. Anthony, meanwhile, worked at a gym because he promised his grandfather not to get in any trouble and brought his grandfather to Mass on Sundays. Carl sometimes took a turn caring for Anthony’s grandfather on the days the nurse couldn’t come. Gloria thought that was a bad idea.

“Carl, you and Anthony need to be living your own lives.” Carl nodded, waiting for her to come to the real objection. “You’re old enough to start being interested in girls,” she paused. Carl nodded again. “And who’s going to control you? He can’t.”

Carl laughed. “I guess we’ll have to control ourselves.”

Gloria swatted at him with a towel, laughing, too. “Lord knows I never could.”

“What are you really worried about?” Carl asked.

“It’s hard enough for boys like you, Carlie. Be careful where you fall in love.” Carl started, then blushed a deep, dark red. 

“I… it ain’t like that,” he said. Gloria started to cry in relief, folded him into a hug.

“Thank goodness. I’d still love you, but it will be hard enough for you.”

But Carl was not comforted. “You don’t think Bruce… or Anthony…?” he asked, thinking only of Anthony. Bruce had always been very vocally interested in girls. He’d also gotten one pregnant.

Gloria laughed. “Oh, no, Carl. He’s never said anything like that to me. But… you seem very attached to him, and … you’ve never talked about girls.” Carl hugged Gloria back thoughtfully. He’d never thought very much about how he felt, but she was right. His feelings for Anthony were different than what he felt for Bruce or any of their other friends. And he had never once thought about a girl in that protective, tender way, dreamt of holding a girl all night long while she slept against his shoulder. 

They spent most of their days off going to ball games with friends, playing basketball and pool, but every once in a while they would go to the Met. Carl, who had listened to everyone in the halfway house, heard from a boy named Juan that they could go in without paying. “Yeah. They got all armor and shit. My mom works there when she ain’t high.” Anthony was uncomfortable about it the first time, so Carl asked. 

“We’re students. That’s OK, right?”

“Art is for everyone,” a docent had said severely. “You should pay what you can afford.” He looked at them as if saying they could not afford to pay. Anthony’s jaw went tight, and Carl said they should save their money to pay for lunch.

“I never knew that,” Anthony said.

“What?” Carl asked.

“How these fancy people think art is for everyone,” said Anthony. Carl noticed the docent’s eyebrows pop up when Anthony used the word “fancy” as if it was a curse. “How can that be right? They keep it up here, act all scary, and then they just let you in.”

“You should start with the antiquities,” the docent gave them a guide and moved away. 

“They got armor and stuff?” Anthony was amazed.

“Start with the antiquities,” said the docent, floating back into their vicinity. 

When they walked into the hall, Carl felt the breath freeze in his chest. He reached out to touch Anthony’s arm just as Anthony reached out to him.

“Damn,” said Anthony. Carl didn’t have anything to say. “Maybe we should just walk around a while.” Carl, overcome, followed wherever Anthony wandered. At the end of two hours, dizzy with information, Carl let Anthony guide him to a bench.

“We need a lot of times to see all this,” said Anthony, looking over the guide with interest. “There’s a lot of warrior stuff here. And from them bible places.”

“Bruce should see, too,” Carl offered. 

“Yeah,” said Anthony. They were hungry, and went to the cafeteria. One of the food servers recognized them just as they were considering whether to spend all their money on one meal. 

“Did I see you boys in that house with my son, Juan?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Anthony politely. She brought them to the staff break room and fed them leftovers. 

“We were about to throw this out,” she explained. They thanked her politely and answered her questions about Juan. Explained that he had nothing but praise for the museum. “You been brought up right,” said the woman. Her friend, who worked stock in the gift shop gave them a box of water-damaged post cards, which Juan sold, giving Carl and Anthony part of the proceeds.

The docent noticed them later. “Was I right?”

“Yeah,” said Anthony. “You were. A lot of this art is about war, isn’t it?” The docent agreed. “Where are they carrying those women?”

Something about Anthony and Carl’s level gazes caused the docent to be straightforward. “Rape.”

“That ain’t right,” Anthony objected.

“The spoils of war,” said the docent. “It was the way of things in an older time. A brutal time. Before we became civilized men.” He pulled a battered copy of The Illiad from his bag. “You read this, young man.” They took the volume and read it with Bruce and then returned to look at graven images and other artifacts of those ancient warriors, seeing for themselves a path for the future.


	21. You knew?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carl and Anthony get a message from the Machine. Post-Canon.

 

One day, they received a message to go to an apartment on the far side of the city. The Machine kept them on the phone, talking, for fifteen hours straight, asking about vengeance and retribution. And then about tricking an enemy more powerful and stronger than one could imagine. 

A car came and brought them to a small farmhouse where they slept, curled together, in an attic bedroom.  They spent the next two days in various cars on the phone explaining ruthlessness and anger and terror.  Finally, another car brought them back to the outskirts of the city.

_Learn Italian._

 

They did, sitting together over their books and tapes, late into the night.  Carl would look at Anthony’s quiet, intense face, as he mouthed the words, thinking of the days, long ago, when they had first fled New York.  One evening, Anthony looked up, his dark eyes smouldering with an intensity Carl hadn’t seen there for decades.

“You all right there?” Anthony tilted his head.  “You remembering something?” Anthony looked down, shrugged.  Carl closed his eyes a moment, took his hand.  “We did say something, Anthony.  We didn’t leave the important things unsaid.”

“You know about that?”

“What?”

“I told Bruce,” Anthony said, felt his throat close in grief.

“I suspected,” Carl said.  


	22. Call collect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthony and Bruce steal a moment alone. Years later, Carl descends into the burning of hell.
> 
> "It would be years before Anthony killed. Years where he relied on a reputation and a strong right arm, and a reflexive skill for violence, but once he started, he took to enforcement with a grim resignation that nearly broke Carl’s heart."
> 
> Pre-canon.

When Carl and Anthony fled New York as young men, their first stop was to see Bruce.  He had only had a few moments alone with Anthony, while Carl was in a rest room.

“How is he?” 

“Rough. Real torn up.”

Bruce nodded. “And you?”  They had never said that much about it, but Bruce understood, long before Carl, how Anthony felt.  Even though Carl had agreed to treat Anthony right, Bruce didn't quite know if he’d understood how, exactly, Bruce meant that.

“I thought he was dead,” Anthony whispered. “I thought he died and I ain’t never said nothing.”

“Did you two…?”  Anthony shrugged.  “That’s not a yes.”

“We’re,” Anthony said.  “It ain’t that simple for him.”

Bruce nodded. “It’s that simple for you?”

“More than for him.”

“Fair enough,” Bruce said. 

“You want onion rings?”  Anthony nodded as Carl slide back into the booth.  When he hugged Anthony goodbye, Bruce had whispered “You call me. Tomorrow and every day or two until you get settled.”  Anthony had grunted his assent and called collect.

 

**** 

It would be years before Anthony killed.  Years where he relied on a reputation and a strong right arm, and a reflexive skill for violence, but once he started, he took to enforcement with a grim resignation that nearly broke Carl’s heart. 

“I’m so sorry, Anthony,” said Carl, when Anthony, still jittery after his first kill, flinched away from Carl’s touch.

“I don’t like it,” Anthony said. “But I can't leave you doin’ it any more.  Not now. We got too many guys.  They can’t be…”

“I know,” Carl said, reaching out again.  Anthony stepped away.

“Not until the guys are…”

“Oh,” said Carl.  “Should I?”

“Give me a minute,” said Anthony.  “I’ll do it.”   Carl  nodded, then listened as Anthony spoke calmly to his men, and sent them home or asked them to stand guard outside the doors.  Once back inside, he jerked his head and Carl followed, wordless, through a secret closet to a staircase to a pleasant but shabby apartment.  Anthony sat on a tattered sofa and Carl stood in front of him, waited for his friend to speak or act.  But Anthony rested his head against Carl, and wrapped his arms around Carl’s waist.

Carl cupped the back of Anthony’s head in a hand.  “I didn’t want this for you,” he said. “It’s not too late.”  Anthony’s body shook with suppressed sobs.  “You’re doing good, Anthony,” said Carl.  He waited until Anthony went still, then fumbled in his pocket for a bottle of pills.  “Take one of these,” he said.  “It will help you sleep.”

“I can’t…”

“You’ll let me watch over you for once,” said Carl.  “I didn’t want this for you. I’m sorry.”

“You carried me all these years, Carlie,” said Anthony.  “It’s my turn now.”

 

The next morning, Anthony awoke in a mountain cabin.  “I gave the business to Bruce to look after,” Carl explained. 

“What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I wanted one last week with you.” Anthony tilted his head. “Now that you can handle everything yourself.  I have to leave you.”

“Carlie?”

“It’s the time to suffer the burning of hell,” Carl said.

“I thought you done that the time they locked you up in that cellar,” Anthony said.  They’d used electricity.

“How long was that?”

“Two days,” Anthony said. 

“I need to descend to the bowels of the volcano to be blown up again as a diamond.”

“Maybe teach school, then,” Anthony said.  Carl went absolutely still. “I can’t think of anything worse than that. Like a prison guard with no gun.”

“And you can become a cop,” Carl said without missing a beat. “That sounds pretty bad to me.”

“Carlie, no,” said Anthony. “I ain’t interested.”

“It’s the best way to learn the inside, Bello.” Carl said.

Anthony shrugged.  “Not in New York,” he said.   He paused.  “How’d you get me in here, anyways?”

“You walk pretty good when you’re semi-conscious,” Carl said. 


	23. Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stunning conclusion. The Machine sends Carl and Anthony on one last journey.

Months later, in a square where people played chess with giant pieces, a pay phone rang as they passed.  “Can you hear me?”

“Root?” Carl asked.

“Not the Root you knew,” said the Machine.  “How about a nice game of chess?”  A man in a black suit handed Carl an envelope with a cell phone in it.

“Let me put you on speaker,” said Carl. 

After they had lost, the Machine continued. “I expunged your legal records and restored your funds. You may freely travel. Or relatively freely.  Please avoid your territories in New York. Discard this phone.”

A package arrived from Thornhill the next day. Passports. Tickets to Italy. Money. A list of banks and safe deposit boxes.  Marco told them to come back, that they were welcome any time.  They said it would be about a year.

The Machine bought them a small flat, not flashy, and they travelled together by train or bus, heads together over maps and guide books.  Their quiet affection brought smiles to the faces of the people around them. No one would ever have guessed that these small, unassuming men had been ruthless killers, leaders of organized crime.  Or that they had millions of dollars in numbered bank accounts.  Or that Anthony was carefully armed with plastic weapons that would not show up in airport security.

One afternoon, they wandered through a little courtyard, full of small trattorias where patrons sat over wine and delicate meals.  A man looked up, started, then leapt to his feet, knocking over his chair in his haste to greet them.

Anthony stepped forward, an arm protectively in front of Carl, and the man stopped.  “Anthony, this is Harold,” Carl said. Anthony didn’t move, and Carl tucked an arm around his waist and took Harold’s outstretched hand. “Come along, caro mio.”

“I’d like you both to meet my wife, Grace,” said Harold. Grace smiled and offered them chairs.

“I’m so glad to meet you.  Harold and I have been wanting some friends.  He claims not to have any.”

“Us too,” said Anthony, surprising Harold and Carl by speaking first. He surprised them again when he kissed Grace hello before he set Carl’s chair in place. “It gets a little lonely sometimes. I’m Anthony.”  Grace’s sketch book was lying open on the table and Anthony admired a drawing of the city gates, opening a conversation. 

“I thought you were…” Harold began.

“So did I,” said Carl. They glanced at Grace, who was showing Anthony how to sketch, her hand on his, correcting his grip. “Anthony rarely takes to anyone so quickly,” Carl said. 

“And what have you been doing since we last met?”

“Reading, mostly,” said Carl.

“Mostly?”

“Anthony had a book shop and I was a professor.  We’re staying nearby for a while.”

“Then perhaps you would care to stay at our villa?”  Harold said.  “There’s a guest house. I can have your bags…”

“We have everything we need,” Carl said, indicating the shoulder bags he and Anthony carried.  “We were planning to go home tonight.”

“Oh no,” Grace said, overhearing them. “We can’t lose you so quickly.”  Anthony tilted his head at Carl, who smiled indulgently.

“We’d be delighted,” said Carl. 

The villa was huge and impressive and full of books.  A table full of computers sat in the front room.  Carl instinctively kept out of the expected path of their cameras, while Grace led Anthony in to see her studio.

“You remain very cautious,” said Harold.

“Well, I am dead,” said Carl. 

“As am I,” said Harold.  “We all are.”  Carl nodded, then caught sight of a chessboard.

“I thought you didn’t like chess?” Carl said.

“I don’t,” said Harold.  “But it was here when we arrived and Grace likes it.  It reminds me of an earlier time, when men were not so civilized.”

Carl nodded. “The kind of man I was before I died,” he agreed.

Harold paused.  “You’ve changed?”

“We… Anthony and I.  We wanted a different life, but Moretti casts a long shadow.  It followed us, Harold.  We tried, very hard, to leave that life behind. Not just once, but many times.  Eventually there was nothing for it but to go back and seek revenge.  And then I lost Anthony.  It would be impossible to express that pain in words.  We’ve been friends since we were boys.  He is, has always been, my right hand in all things. The only lover I’ve ever known.” Harold’s mouth dropped open. “Without him, my life is meaningless.”

“I had no idea,” Harold finally managed to say. 

“You helped me.  Gave me a new purpose. And now, thanks to your machine, I have him back. I am truly grateful.”

They looked up and saw Anthony in the doorway, holding a tray, smiling.  Carl could see by Anthony’s expression that he’d heard everything Carl had said, or enough.  “Bello,” Carl said. Anthony crossed the room and kissed Carl on the cheek.  Grace came in with a bottle of wine, kissed Harold, and the subject was changed. 

“We have some very nice Marolo,” said Harold while Anthony opened the wine. “It was here when we arrived.  Neither Grace nor I generally drink it, but your arrival indicates that there was a larger plan.”

It was Carl’s turn to be surprised. “Is this why your machine saved us? To keep you company? So you would have a friend?”

“I shouldn’t be so surprised,” said Harold.  “John thought we were very alike, and the machine made me get to know Grace.” They watched Anthony and Grace, who had taken their glasses out into a courtyard. Grace reached out and touched Anthony’s arm, and he smiled.

“Really?” Carl asked.

“Really,” said Harold.  “I’ve never been very good with people. Are we still friends?” Harold asked.  “I still feel responsible for the harm that came to Mr. Marconi.”  Anthony looked up at the name.

“We should stick to first names,” said Carl. “And I do consider you a friend, Harold.  You always gave me the benefit of the doubt. Even when I didn’t deserve it, which was most of the time.  When John met me, I was a very bad man and a very good teacher. Now I have to live with the shame of so many evil things.”

“And Anthony?”

“He went to confession,” said Carl.  “Every week. He begged me to come along, but I felt it was hypocritical to ask for that consolation, given what I was planning.  And now, I’ve been afraid to let him go into a church.  He’s been quite upset about it, but he doesn't let it show.”

“There are so few cameras here, Carl, and the churches are all tourist spots. I imagine you could confess, if it would make you feel better.”

“I’m thinking more of Anthony,” said Carl.  “I own the things I’ve done.”

“Even the baby?” Harold asked.

“Anthony was timing it to get her out in time,” said Carl.  “We were going to keep her.”

“What?”

“He wanted… I wanted to give her to him. He’s such a gentle man behind closed doors.  He’d have been a wonderful father.”

“That’s quite an unusual adoption method,” said Harold. “It’s rare that I meet people whose lives are as complex as mine has been.” Carl reached out and squeezed his arm. 

“Let’s join the others,” Carl said. “I’d like you to get to know Anthony.”  Grace walked up and took Carl’s arm.

“Anthony tells me you make a wonderful puttanesca,” she said. “I love puttanesca.” Carl smiled, a smile that deepened when Harold invited Anthony to the chessboard.  “Will you show me?”

“I’d be delighted,” said Carl. “Thank you for inviting me into your home.”

“I’ve always wanted to meet one of Harold’s friends,” said Grace. “He was thrilled to see you. I’ve never seen him move that fast.”

They stayed up late talking and finally, Carl and Anthony settled into a bed in the guest house.  “I am sorry, Anthony,” said Carl.  “For saying all that to Harold without asking first.  I got comfortable with him when I was hurt.”

Anthony took off Carl’s glasses and kissed him. “Sometimes it’s good to hear. I don’t have enough words to say how I feel about you.”

“My Anthony,” Carl said. “Words are such a small thing compared to what you do.”  Anthony rested his forehead on Carl’s shoulder.

“You think we can ever finish that kissing all over?”

“We can try,” said Carl.

“Are we going back?” Anthony asked. “We can make the streets better.”

“Is that what you want?”

“It seems a shame to waste your talent.”

“Maybe it’s time for us to do something else,” Carl said.  “Harold is a brilliant man and a fine teacher, but he doesn't understand people the way we do.  Maybe we’re here to help him help that machine become more human.”

Anthony tilted his head. “Because we ain’t civilized men?”

Carl’s face grew grave.  “What do you want?”

“To be with you,” Anthony said.  “Be your right hand man.  It’s all I ever wanted.”

Carl nodded.  “I want to be a teacher,” he said.  “That’s what I’ve loved more than anything.”  He smiled, then, and patted Anthony’s cheek. “Except you, my bello.”

“Then let’s do that,” Anthony said.

 

In the thin light of dawn, Harold caught sight of Carl and Anthony walking up the road, hand in hand. He was surprised when they returned with breakfast, and even more surprised, if he was honest with himself, that they never returned to their former habits of violence.

 

 


End file.
